


Foreign Bodies

by Prevailing



Series: Splitting Image [2]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Alternate Universe, Amnesiac Dissonance, Amnesiac Resonance, Angst, Earn Your Happy Ending, Foe Romance, Holy Sexual Tension Batman, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Issues, Journey Into the Center of the Mind, M/M, Memory Gambit, Romance, Sleeper Agents, Starting Over, Substance Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-22
Updated: 2016-10-13
Packaged: 2018-04-12 03:04:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 79,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4463090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prevailing/pseuds/Prevailing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Twelve years ago, Elim Garak went under deep cover as a Bajoran tailor.</p><p>Then Julian Bashir ruined everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the direct follow-up to _[Inside Out](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1546973)_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Teaser.

Dust motes twinkle under the red subterranean lights, drifting down like snow. His first sight of snowfall had been during a winter evening on Qo’noS, of all places. The flakes had been as big as eyeballs, forming embankments of frozen sludge at the sides of the road. As he chases the memory, it leads to the scrap of another, then another, until he’s lost. Thank the triumph ofkanar for once again dulling the edges of his mind.

The dust motes whirl through the air in the violent sweep of Tain’s arms. He’s mid rant, gesturing to the battle arrayed on the kotra table while Garak retreats to the desk on the pretense of refreshing his glass. As he pours from the aged, black bottle, careful not to spill, he keeps Tain in his periphery. Never a good idea to turn one’s back to Tain while he’s in one of these moods. He’s been known to throw things. 

Then Tain goes quiet, and there’s a scraping sound of a kotra piece moving across the board. Tain grunts in satisfaction. _Ah,_ Garak laments. _For all that raving, he still found it._ Tain plucks up the captured legate and dangles it. “Look, Elim!” he says, grinning as if it were a squirming insect he was holding by the leg. “This is you _._ ”

He tosses thekotra piece with an indifferent flick of the wrist. It bounces on the handwoven rug to land at Garak’s feet. 

Garak’s grip tightens around thekanar. He turns to Tain and meets his smile. He can handle losing gracefully, but it’s easier still with the prescience that this will be the last time. “Really, Tain,” he begins, stooping to retrieve the discardedkotra piece. The rug spins and blurs. He’s much too drunk to pull off this maneuver. “You’re getting clumsy in your old age.”

He spots the piece again, farther away, separated by the gulf of his own inebriation. Garak makes an uncoordinated grab for it and falters. 

It’s gone. Thekotra piece, the rug. The carpet beneath him is now teal, patterned in geometric shapes.  _Tacky_ is his first thought. No sensible Cardassian would be caught dead decorating their home with anything so banal. He straightens at once and a wave of disorientation washes over him. It isn’t from thekanar; he’s suddenly and most unpleasantly sober. The tips of his fingers sting where they’re holding the glass.

Garak glances down. What had once been a glass ofkanar is now a mug of red tea, its steam acrid and inviting. The ceramic scalds his skin.

His skin.

The hand curled around the mug is pinkish white like raw, uncuredrokat, devoid of scales and covered in patches of fine—not fur, no—mammalian _hair_. Garak nearly drops the mug, but his training keeps his grip locked in place. Redleaf tea sloshes over the side, burning his knuckles. Garak winces. Yes, most definitely _his_ hand.

His eyes lift, drawn to the reflective surface of a portal. The window opens into a black, endless field of stars. Garak raises aneyeridge. His mirror image answers by quirking an eyebrow.

Leaning forward, Garak stares at the too-smooth face, at the faint lines around the eyes, at the wrinkles bridging an unadorned nose. Something has gone wrong—catastrophically so.Palandine should be here. He should be able to remember where he is, how he got to this place with its ugly carpet, Cardassian architecture, and foreign starscape. But the living chamber appears to be empty, and if the tea and the robe he’s wearing are any indication, he isn’t in immediate danger. There’s no need to panic. 

Tentatively, Garak brushes a cheek with his free hand and favors his reflection with a jaunty, experimental smile. “Hello, Elim,” he says. He barks out a startled laugh.

His voice, at least, is the same.


	2. Chapter 2

Garak abandons his tea on the rectangular dining table (with a clay pot of dried Bajoran lilacs as its centerpiece—also tacky) and continues to peer through the narrow portal. Wherever he is, there are no nearby planets in view, only stars above and below. An outpost, then, or a ship at a dead stop. He catches his reflection gaping and closes his mouth.

Finding a proper mirror is the first priority.

As he searches, he passes a computer terminal, Cardassian made and remarkably advanced. Behind it hangs a painting of a tower built from lattice girders. A prominent Terran landmark, he distantly recalls. It doesn’t hold his attention for long. In the hallway, he finds a true work of art. It’s a painting of a plasma manifold, the composition of blue and green brushstrokes giving it a foreboding appearance. It’s the signature style of the Vulcan expressionist Falvan, renowned for her ability to transform common objects into emotional masterpieces. As his eyes wander over the canvas, he’s struck with a sense of emptiness and loss. It’s new. It must be. He’s never seen it before.

When he’d first met Falvan, she’d been living in exile on Prime for the past four decades. She’d been _emphatic_ , had insisted that she’d never pick up the brush again. “I’ve lost my inspiration,” she’d told him. Yet here sits proof of her lie: she came out of retirement, without his notice.

Garak squashes the impulse to dive straight for the computer. He doesn’t trust anything about this place, and the terminal may be populated with misinformation meant to mislead and distract him. With one last glance at the painting, he moves on.

The first door he tries leads to the refresher. It’s small, but not confining, with a half-length mirror. Garak immediately regrets finding it. The harsh overhead lighting is as unforgiving as a spotlight. It transforms every line on his face into a deep fissure and accentuates the gray circles beneath his eyes. Then again, at least _something_ is the right color.

He brings the lights down until his skin goes from an unhealthy sallow to simply unattractively pallid. The lines not only frame the corners of his eyes, but around his mouth, and between his brows, more evident and numerous than the reflection in the viewport let on. Frowning only worsens the topography. He tugs at the skin beneath his chin and tilts his head to examine his profile. There is not a single flattering angle to be found.

Sighing, Garak’s attention shifts to the bathrobe. It’s well-made, black cotton embroidered with gold thread. Tentatively, he splays it open at the chest and grimaces at the sight of more hair, nearly hiding the two pink areolae and their ridiculous, useless nubs. Garak rolls his eyes to the ceiling and suppresses a shudder. Best to get it over with. He undoes the belt and, holding his breath, shrugs out of the robe. It falls to the floor.

He looks down. “Mindur,” he mutters like it’s an oath.

What was that man _thinking_ , leaving him half-finished like this? Turning away from the mirror, Garak inspects Timot’s handiwork, cringing as he goes. He prods at the flesh of his torso and tugs at the hair beneath his arms. Although he seems freshly cleaned, his body is already putting off an acidic, musty scent. It isn’t unpleasant, not yet, but something will have to be done about it.

The examination continues. He twists around, taking silent, dispassionate notes on everything from the placement of each freckle to the varied color and texture of his skin—pink on the palms and soles of the feet, and softest along his underarms. His skin is tight in the wrong places, too loose in others. It doesn’t _drape_ right. And the lack of ridges makes his body feel formless. Garak rests his elbows on the sink and covers his face in his hands, taking shuddering breaths to calm himself. Even the simple sensation of running his fingers through his hair—once comforting—now feels strange and disorienting. Oh, he’s going to be ill.

It takes more breaths to control the nausea. This is only a minor discomfort. Soon enough, he’ll contact the Order and be on his way back to Cardassia and his real body. And he’ll have a few choice words for Mindur Timot. Perhaps he should have him executed. He’s always liked the man, but this level of ineptitude can’t go unpunished. The thought is a soothing one.

Garak bends down to retrieve the robe and catches sight of a pile of clothes neatly folded on a shelf. He grabs a tunic, then freezes in place as his eyes settle on the blue and black garment lying underneath. Even folded, Garak recognizes it as easily as if the insignia were still attached.

A Starfleet uniform.

Well, _this_ certainly changes a few things.

Within seconds he’s pulled on the tunic and a pair of pants—he might be out of his element, but he will not be taking on the Federation in a bathrobe. Alert, Garak slips out of the refresher and into the adjoining bedroom, seeking out possible weapons. His first guess was that he’d been inadvertently activated in his own living quarters, but as he looks around the bedroom with its separate dressers and single, large bed, it’s clear that these quarters are shared.

He searches behind and under furniture, overturning books and domestic flotsam, following his hunch. The bed gives off a faded, alien scent that isn’t his own. It invades his senses, and although Garak shouldn’t be able to taste it, the scent lingers on his tongue until he’s sure he could easily identify it in a lineup of thousands of men. The unique musk sends a small thrill down his spine and makes the fine hairs on his body stand up in anticipation. That reaction disturbs him far more than the discovery of the uniform.

There’s nothing beneath or inside the bed, nor its adjacent furniture. He moves on to a chest of drawers. Atop it sits a Starfleet-issue medical tricorder, a compact medkit, and the framed image of two men. As he picks it up, the image blurs, coming into focus again only as he holds it at arm’s length. Just what he needed; a little vision impairment to spice up the situation.

It takes Garak an additional blink to recognize his own smiling, Bajoran face in the image. The resemblance is uncanny, the similarity in the eyes disquieting. His face, perhaps, but worn by someone else. The human man appears younger in comparison, dark-haired, wearing the blue Starfleet uniform and an easy smile that radiates confidence. Garak commits his face to memory. The man in the image drapes one arm across his Bajoran companion in a gesture that’s half embrace, half chokehold.

Someone, somewhere, is toying with him. Garak flips the frame over and kneels to riffle through the dresser.

The hunch pays off. He smiles in satisfaction as he finds, affixed beneath one of the drawers, a sharpened six-inch dagger, its carbon steel blade coated black. He tests its weight in his hand, deems it acceptable. “Good boy,” he says, tucking it out of sight.

The corresponding dresser turns up a Bajoran phaser pistol in its component parts. Once he has it assembled and charging, Garak pries open the drawers and inspects the stacks of clothing inside. Each garment is Cardassian in style, with small Bajoran flourishes. Like the robe, they’re of high quality, better than anything he could ever hope to fashion. As he finishes dressing, slipping on the first matching pair of shoes, this detail, combined with the half-finished nature of his disguise, sends his mind skittering in a new direction.

It stops at the most plausible explanation.

His chest constricts as his surroundings realign around him, coming into focus as if from a new perspective. The placement of every object becomes deliberate. Garak moves in counterpoint to it, the search renewed, relying on instinct to guide him. The bedroom is a dead end. Wandering into the living area, he pauses as a glimmer of glass catches his eye. In a recess in the wall sits a well-lit desert terrarium. Garak stoops to peer inside. Empty. He’s about to turn away when he spots a familiar rustle of movement. There, hiding beneath a rock, a brown regnar peers back at him.

Garak tucks his tongue in his cheek. _A Bajoran, dressed as a Cardassian, with Cardassian genitals, who keeps Cardassian pets and drinks Cardassian tea in the morning._ It sounds like the beginning of a joke.

He’s lifting a container of squirming insects from a shelf when he notices that from where he’s standing, he has an unobstructed view of the living area, entry way, dining room, computer terminal, and part of the hallway. If he were in the business of information gathering—ah, he sees it: a bubble in the wall paneling above the regnar’s habitat. Subtle, but obvious to a trained eye. Dagger in hand, Garak runs its edge along the raised surface of the paneling, probing. The tip of the blade hits metal.

He takes a step back. There it is. Incontrovertible.

He’s _failed._

Garak almost rips the device from the wall, but stops short. Satisfying as it might be to throw a tantrum, crush the fragile cylinder and rage at his—his _captors_ —he won’t ruin what might be his one advantage. He knows he’s being observed, he knows this is a farce, but perhaps whoever is on the other side of that transmitter doesn’t yet realize he’s aware of it.

A hand reflexively goes to his smooth temple. He can feel a headache coming on. On the plus side, he doesn’t seem to be suffering from his customary morning hangover. That should make focusing _much_ easier. Garak circles the room.

If this were some sort of holoprojection, he’d be able to sense the walls. Garak picks up a hardbound book from a table and winces at the title. Abysmal taste in reading material aside, it feels real in his soft, alien hands. Then again, his senses might be impaired along with his eyesight (or, put another way: perhaps his captors possess technology capable of fooling even Cardassian senses). However, if this were a projection, the surveillance device would be unnecessary. Unless, of course, his captors _want_ him to know that he’s being monitored.

Then there’s the dagger and Bajoran phaser, secreted away. Would his captors go to such lengths as to program hidden weapons?

Regardless, the _where—_ bizarre and aesthetically deranged as it is—is not as exigent as the _how_ and the _why._ Garak lowers himself to a bench carved from warm Cardassian pumice stone, more suited to a sauna than someone’s living quarters. The memories come to him at once, out of sequence. It’s an effort to shuffle them into the correct order.

He’d been playing kotra in Tain’s office that evening. Then he’d gone to his appointment at the Applied Science Directorate. Timot had been boasting as always, patting his shoulder and showing him to a—no, that isn’t right. His appointment with Timot had been the following morning. He’d met with Pythas before that.

The argument had been utterly wretched, a death knell to two decades of association. Afterward, his only thought had been, _At least in five hours I’ll remember none of this._

Garak groans into his hand. Really, there are a multitude of ways it could’ve gone wrong. His transport could have been intercepted at any point between Cardassia and Bajor, or he might’ve been discovered on Bajor itself while well into his mission. Standing, he weaves past the furniture to reach the computer terminal. He taps the monitor. The Federation stardate pops on the screen.

He must be hallucinating, or his math must be bad. It’s been a long time since he’s needed to read Federation Standard numerals. But when he orders the computer to convert the stardate into the Cardassian calendar, the result is the same.

Twelve years. Not months. _Years._ Cold dread settles in the pit of his stomach as he envisions the transport veering off-course and crashing on a backwater planet, stranding him along with the skeleton crew, only to be rescued by Starfleet and sent to a remote Federation outpost. Twelve years, without knowing who he is, mated to a _human_ and whiling away the time in this purgatory, reading books with ludicrous titles like _Sense and Sensibility—_

“Elim, you’re being ridiculous.”

The sound of his own voice tamps down the rising, hysterical panic. What he needs is more information. Garak’s eyes flick around the room, panic giving way to rage. How stupid do they think he is? The Order would never abandon one of its agents in the field, much less leave him unattended for twelve years to be discovered by the enemy and interrogated. Even if Palandine was killed, someone would’ve come to retrieve him. He’d be taken back to Cardassia for reintegration, or mercifully terminated.

His attention returns to the Falvan painting. It’s clearly a plant, window dressing, a copycat hung prominently in an attempt to fool him into believing that more time has passed, as if Falvan has since reconsidered her retirement to grace the galaxy with another masterpiece. His captors must know Garak well if they counted on him noticing such a detail. _I warned you, Tain. You always underestimated Section 31. Now look where that’s gotten us._

Besides Tain (and Garak would be loathe to discount his _dear_ mentor’s ability to test his loyalty in such a circumspect, circuitous manner), Section 31 is the only faction with the means and the motivation to concoct a plot this devious. They may know his identity and the nature of his little assignment, but he will not cooperate.

He’s turning back to the terminal, finger raised to resume, when a chime rings from the door.

Garak waits, eyes on the door, one hand going to the dagger. Nobody bursts through. Why? If he’s a captive, why bother requesting his audience? The door chirps again, and this time Garak straightens his tunic and strides for it. Best to face his interrogators head on, demonstrate that he isn’t afraid. He slaps a button and the door slides open.

A human woman smiles up at him. Her hair, Cardassian-black, falls over a blazer that nearly swallows her petite frame. She seems as nonthreatening as they come, but he’s not fooled for an instant. “Good morning, Pela,” she says in Federation Standard. “Late start?”

He’s pleased to see that Timot went with the name he wanted, rather than Tain’s suggestion. He’d be damned if he’d be living as Tovo Garven for the foreseeable future. Garak looks over her heavily-padded shoulder and into the hallway, finding it empty and devoid of additional clues. He isn’t sure how to respond to her question, much less what language to use. Not confident in his Standard, he hedges and tries Bajoran instead. “Late start?”

“You weren’t at the shop,” she explains, “and class won’t be starting for another half hour. If you’re free, I’ve got one of the centerpieces ready at home. Want to take a look? I think you’ll like how it turned out.”

And so the farce commences. Garak favors her with his most convincing smile. “I’d love to. Please, after you.”

The woman moves off, and Garak casts a last, casual glance over his shoulder as he enters the corridor, orienting in his new surroundings. It wouldn’t do to forget where he “lives,” after all. The temperature is noticeably cooler here, unpleasantly so, and he can already feel his body reacting to it. His skin feels tighter. As they walk, they pass several Bajorans, some paying him not a second glance, while others nod and smile in his direction. None of them shrink back or avert their eyes in diffidence. He’s going to miss that.

“Odo stopped by this morning,” says the woman. “Have you had a chance to talk to him yet?”

“I can’t say that I have.”

“He must still be making the rounds. I know he’s had his hands full with Quark lately. He told me there’s still no word from the _Defiant_.” Before Garak can consider an appropriate response, she pats his arm. “I’d give it another two days before I start worrying. Trust me, that’s experience talking.”

Garak’s listened in on enough private conversations between the husbands and wives of Cardassia’s soldiers, the loved ones left behind, to recognize the tempo. The platitudes are universal, bridging cultures. He picks one at random and releases a long-suffering sigh. “As they say, it never gets easier.”

“I swear, if anything, it gets worse once you’re married. Every time they go out there, you know if they die on you, it’ll only be harder to pick up the pieces.”

How delightfully morbid!

“At least Julian’s a doctor,” she continues, stopping before a door and keying it open. He follows her inside. “Starfleet won’t be sending him to the front lines. Miles, on the other hand—Molly! Get down from there and finish your breakfast!”

A human child scrambles off the table from where she was crouched, caught sniffing a vase of white Vulcan hydrangeas arranged into a stiff pillar. The woman extends an arm, encouraging him to take a closer look. Garak approaches, one hand hovering over the pocket where he’s keeping the dagger. If he cut the woman’s throat right now, would she disappear in a flash of shattered light, or bleed like a real, living human? He wonders.

The child shovels food from a bowl and watches him. Garak smiles at her and turns his attention to the flower arrangement.

Tolan could do significantly better, of course, but it’s a good attempt. He feels at the leaves and stems, one eye assessing the woman’s living quarters. Nothing of note jumps out at him. “The stems are not as supple as they could be,” Garak says, idly. “I’d recommend spraying the roots with a more concentrated nitrogen solution. The white variety of hydrangea requires it more than the blue.”

The woman stares at him, brows raised. _Sloppy, Elim. Can’t even remember the basic traits of your own creation._ Thankfully, she doesn’t seem to notice the slip and reaches into the arrangement to squeeze one of the stems. “You’re right. They’re brittle. I see someone’s been doing their research.”

Garak shrugs, demurring. “Perhaps only a little.” Oh, he should be pressing her for information, but he can’t resist. “What about adding a few sprigs of Terran lavender, for some color? I’m sure _Julian_ would appreciate it.”

“Pela, that’s what I’ve been telling you from the beginning. But you said—” The woman cuts herself off and her expression softens. She shakes her head. “Julian’s right, you _are_ nervous. You know, before Miles and I got married, we fought like cats and dogs. I even called the whole thing off at one point.” She takes the empty bowl from her daughter and drops it into a port beside the replicator. “But I’m glad I didn’t. You have _nothing_ to worry about.”

Garak is aware that the child is staring at him with keen, wide-eyed interest. “May I ask,” he says, giving the conversation a nudge, “how long you waited before having children?”

“Not long.” Her smile is smug now, as if she’s caught him, and Garak can imagine Mila wearing the same expression. “Why, do you want children?”

It’s the perfect question for his means, the kind he can mull without appearing unsure, or worse yet, confused. This is as good a time as any to take his first risk, to issue a challenge. Garak folds his arms behind his back and says, “I _am_ a Cardassian, aren’t I?”

“Is that an answer?”

“For me, it is.”

“You know, if you asked me two years ago if Julian could handle a family, I would’ve called you crazy. But he’s matured a lot since we first met him. I think he’d make a good father, Pela. You should ask him when he gets back.”

And with that, Garak finds himself back in the corridor, replaying the conversation. As he expected, she hadn’t seemed surprised, had hardly _reacted_ to what otherwise should’ve been a revelation. Several feet down the hallway, a Bajoran woman strides in his direction, toward a nearby turbolift.

Garak steadies his breathing, drawing inside himself and focusing on the way his body fits with the floor, with the cold recycled air. He feels the thrum running through every bulkhead and beam and synchronizes with it, as if joining his voice to a chorus. The woman nearly runs into him, and he takes a step back, avoiding the collision. He releases a breath; he’d worried that he’d lost the ability. As she enters the turbolift, he slips in after her.

“Promenade,” she says. The lift begins to move. She rocks back on her heels and adjusts her undergarments.

When the turbolift slows and the doors slide open, Garak follows her out. He comes to a halt in the middle of a bustling thoroughfare ringed with shops and recognizes the architecture at once, confirming the hints of Cardassian design he’d noted earlier. It’s a Cardassian orbital docking station, almost identical to the one he’d visited years ago in the Kelvas system. Only there’s not a single Cardassian to be seen among the hundreds of alien humanoids. Instead, the Promenade teems with Bajorans—shopping and sipping beverages, chatting, carrying on as if oblivious to the ongoing occupation of their homeworld.

There is a sudden susurrus to Garak’s left, where a crowd has gathered around the viewports. Hands point to a passenger ship drifting from the station at impulse. He’s about to turn away, uninterested, when a flash of azure and violet light, churning like a massive storm, swallows the ship whole and disappears, leaving behind black, empty space. The crowd breaks into applause.

“Pela?” A Bajoran man is petting his arm, asking something about a jacket. Garak cringes, furious at himself for so thoroughly losing his grasp on his surroundings that he’s allowed himself to be seen. He shakes the man off, ignoring the bemused frown that earns, and escapes back into the safety of the turbolift. Coming this way had been foolish.

Gripping the railing, he glares at the ceiling and barks, “Habitat ring.”

Finding his quarters again is easy enough. Garak taps at the panel controls, working to override the security protocols and force the door open. The structure is more advanced than expected, but nothing he can’t surmount. He’s on his third attempt when he hears footsteps.

“Having trouble, Mister Pela?” a man growls, arms folded across his chest as he approaches.

Garak looks him up and down. Although the man’s addressed him in Bajoran, his body language is purely Cardassian, exuding wary authority. Garak can’t identify his uniform, fashioned of brown, seamless Inkarian wool and lacking any sign of rank beside the Bajoran comlink fastened to his quilted jacket. His species is equally elusive. Curious. “It seems,” Garak says, plastering together an embarrassed smile, “that I’ve forgotten my access code.”

The man rolls his eyes, posture shifting to amused exasperation. “That’s the third time this month.” He draws closer, toward the door controls. “Maybe Doctor Bashir should take another look at that brain of yours when he gets back.” He gestures for Garak to give him room.

Garak obeys, mulling over the comment as the man inputs his security code. “Perhaps you’re right. When do you suppose that’ll be?”

“Considering we can’t communicate through the wormhole, your guess is as good as mine.” The door slides open and the man gives him a wry look. “Do _try_ to remember your code this time.”

“I make no guarantees,” Garak says, breezing past. “I’m fortunate that you were so close by. I was afraid I’d be sleeping in the hallway tonight.”

The man harrumphs. “I see you’re not wearing your earring anymore.”

Halfway through the door, Garak stops, hand reflexively going to his ear. _Ah, yes, that idiotic jewelry they wear—_

“Other ear, Mister Pela.”

Garak freezes in place, but the man only casts him another penetrative stare, shakes his head, and continues down the corridor without another word. Once he’s out of sight, Garak steps inside and closes the door. Instinct and good sense caution him: _Careful. That one knows what he’s doing._

His stomach sends him its own message, insisting that it’s been neglected. Garak silences it with a pat. He isn’t about to trust the replicator. Not until he’s ruled out that the food could be laced with poisons or any number of substances capable of impairing his mind and body.

For a time, Garak stands at the dining area’s narrow viewport, searching for familiar stars and trying to remember. If it _has_ been twelve years, if there exists a Cardassian-built space station where Bajorans gather freely, then where have those years gone? He should be able to recall, know what to do next. Maybe that human, that supposed Starfleet “doctor” activated him without realizing it. Or maybe it was more malicious than that, and his memory has been deliberately wiped. The motive escapes him, but precious little of this situation makes sense.

If this Doctor Julian Bashir is even partially responsible for his plight, then why isn’t he here?

There’s no use spinning in circles. Garak activates the console and begins to dig. The information is not to be trusted any more than the replicator, but if he’s a captive and this is indeed a farce, it will tell him what he’s meant to believe. He knows better than to attempt communication with any of his contacts, and keeps his inquiries to the innocuous, blinking and squinting as his eyes struggle to focus on the text.

He’ll never comprehend the Federation’s fetish with transparency, but as he flips through personnel files, there’s no denying its efficiency. Doctor Julian Subatoi Bashir, lieutenant junior grade, is the first subject, and Garak memorizes the details of the human’s commendable, if bland, service record aboard “Deep Space Nine,” formerly the mining station Terok Nor. He downloads the Chief Medical Officer logs for later review and peruses the man’s personal medical records, noting more than one gaping hole.

That leads him delving into crew rosters, one after another. He dedicates faces and background details to memory. Then he studies the station schematics, identifying escape routes and optimal places to seek shelter. It takes considerable time, but with that out of the way, he can move on to the meat, what he truly cares about: twelve years of Bajoran-Cardassian relations, compiled and condensed by Federation historians. He follows the summary in chronological order, questioning every word and spotting mistakes in the narrative. Impatient with the author’s naive, simpleminded bias, he skims ahead until a single sentence jars his attention.

Garak squints, verifies that he read that correctly. _Following the Detapa Council’s recommendations, Cardassian Central Command ordered the withdrawal from Bajor in 2369, officially ending fifty years of occupation and—_

He checks the time, startled that he’s lost track of it. It’s well into the evening. It seems a break is in order. Pushing away from the terminal, Garak crosses the room to recline on the sofa, one arm covering his eyes. The blurred vision has aggravated his headache and nausea.

There’s nothing surprising about Cardassia losing its hold over its colony. He’d seen the signs for years; the Occupation had been unsustainable. But the Union had grown accustomed to Bajor’s wealth and easy labor. Cardassia will suffer its loss. Assuming any of it is true.

Feeling like a ghost, a stranger in another’s home, Garak paces across the quarters. In the refresher, he discovers a gold betrothal bracelet and a single Bajoran earring, likely the one mentioned by the man with the odd face (Chief of Security Odo, the rosters claim). Removed during the routines of hygiene, it seems. Garak fumbles the clasps of the earring in place and turns his head. He doesn’t care for the lack of symmetry, and its weight leaves him off-balanced, but he’s done far worse in the pursuit of a good cover. After a moment’s hesitation, he fastens the bracelet as well. Just in case.

Back in the living area, he tosses insects into the regnar’s terrarium and slips out of view to watch it eat. Perhaps he should follow suit before he faints. With one baleful glance at the monitoring device, Garak replicates a glass of water and a plate of plain, baked rokat, smiling to himself as it materializes. He carries the tray to the dining table and opens his mouth to scent the air around each offering. When that turns up nothing amiss, he takes measured sips and bites, chewing slowly, and waits. It takes him an hour to finish the single, unseasoned filet. Afterward, he feels no different. He might just live.

Back at the computer terminal, Garak searches the public record for his pseudonym. It’s late now, and fatigue singes the corners of his mind, but he continues to work. He needs to develop a plan of action and, ultimately, find a way to safely contact Tain. As he reads, one hand strokes down his cheek, following the grain of short hairs. The sensation against his fingers is disquieting, but he finds if he strokes upward, the hairs feel almost like fine scales.

He’s so intent on the words blurring in and out of focus, he doesn’t notice the door sliding open until the human doctor bursts through, looking half-crazed, his hair and uniform in disarray. Garak jumps back, the dagger tucked in his palm, but Bashir closes the distance, oblivious.

Garak opens his mouth to offer a warning— _get back, Doctor, I don’t want to harm you just yet—_ but the human is fast. He grabs Garak and kisses him with sudden, obscene familiarity. Shocked, Garak keeps his mouth slack, his eyes on the blade. It hovers a scant millimeter from the human’s nape, ready to come down across his throat.

Bashir pulls away, just enough to whisper an apology against his lips, and Garak flinches as a warm hand caresses the stubble of his cheek. “You have every right to be cross with me,” the human blathers on, eyes transmitting layers of apology that Garak doesn’t understand.

When he lets go, Garak slips the dagger out of sight. “Cross?”

Bashir continues to apologize, brushing off Garak’s attempts to reassure him, and when he speaks his counterpart’s name, Garak feels an odd sensation run down his spine, of recognition and joy. He remembers, years ago, stumbling into his apartment, his newly repaired ribs sore and throbbing from that unfortunate incident with the Tellarite liaison. There was an intruder waiting for him, and Garak had raised his disruptor only to find Pythas sitting at the window, the scales along his brow furrowed with worry. If it’s been twelve years, then—

Bashir’s taken his hand with that same irritating familiarity and holds it to his chest like a totem. “After I have myself a long nap,” he’s saying, running his fingers across Garak’s knuckles. “I’ve hardly slept this past week.”

What a splendid idea. Garak nods. “Of course, dear.”

Bashir gives him a fatuous look, the same he wore in that sham picture in the bedroom, and Garak almost groans. This time, he’s ready for the dance. When Bashir leans in, eyes fluttering closed in anticipation, Garak offers his mouth. Unlike the first kiss, this one is civilized, sensual, and the glide of Bashir’s tongue says much more than _goodnight_. Admittedly, it’s not unpleasant.

When the human pulls away, his eyes brim with promise. “Coming?”

“Soon enough,” Garak assures him.

Still grinning, Bashir kicks off his boots and loosens the front of his uniform. He wanders into the bedroom and calls out, “Don’t keep me waiting, Serot.”

Once he’s gone, Garak pries out the dagger and sets it beside the terminal. “Oh, _believe me_ ,” he says, “I don’t intend to.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings for** violence.

“No screaming.”

This time, the paralyzing compound has worked magnificently. The human’s long limbs are utterly still, his chest rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths. The only muscle movement is in his expressive face, in the wide, dark eyes that track Garak’s movement across the bedroom. Perspiration beads along his forehead, forming a sheen over his skin. Either he’s a marvelous actor or the worst Section 31 agent Garak has ever encountered.

Doctor Julian Bashir, Chief Medical Officer of Deep Space Nine. Twenty-nine standard years of age. Much too old to be this undisciplined.

“Garak—” The human’s voice cracks. “Garak, _Garak.”_

Garak smiles patiently. Perhaps the compound has muddled the man’s brain. “Yes, Doctor Bashir?” he prompts.

“You don’t—” Bashir blinks, releasing a pair of tears. Incapable of wiping them away, they roll down his cheeks. “You don’t remember me? At all?”

Garak has, of course, expected the human to play this game: pretend that they’re familiar with one another, feign surprise that Garak has never seen him before. It was obvious the moment the doctor burst into the room, accosted him, and carried on as if his behavior were normal. It’s the same farce perpetuated by everyone else he’s met thus far.

He opts to go along with it. For now. “We have met, once. Earlier this evening.”

“That was _you?_ Oh. Oh, _god.”_ Bashir takes a series of deep breaths, dislodging more tears, looking on the verge of hyperventilation. He swallows and coughs. “L-Listen, Garak, I know what this must look like, but I can explain!”

Turning, Garak makes a show of pulling up a chair beside the bed. He considers what he wants to say, and mentally translates the words into carefully crafted Standard, injecting idioms where necessary. He’d much rather speak Kardasi, but a sure way to put a subject at ease is to use their own language. “Please, Doctor,” Garak says, sitting down, “do go on. I’m all ears.”

“I’d be, uhm, much more comfortable if you put that knife away.”

Garak looks down at the dagger, feigning astonishment at finding it in his hand. “This? There’s no need to worry. It’s merely here for my own self-defense. You don’t intend to rise up from that bed and attack me, do you?”

Bashir’s lips twitch. “I suppose not. How did you even get that? You’re not supposed to have weapons.”

An odd statement. Garak supposes it isn’t directed at him, but to whomever Bashir thinks is listening in on their conversation. _Unfortunately, Doctor, I’ve deactivated your monitoring device._ If the incompetents at Starfleet Intelligence wanted to keep this blade out of his hand, they should’ve learned to perform rudimentary weapons sweeps.

His fingers are sweating against the hilt. It’s a disgusting, wet sensation, and it takes all of Garak’s composure not to wrap his hands around the human’s throat. Later. That will come later. For now, he’s thankful the dagger isn’t reflective. “I believe you were going to explain something?” he asks.

“Well, it’d be easier if I had an idea about what you already know. Help us avoid the redundancies.” A nervous smile pulls at his lips. “You seem to have figured out my name and security codes all right. What’s the last thing you remember?”

Garak has had this answer prepared. “Being on Cardassia.”

Bashir looks at him. After a time, he seems to realize that’s all the information Garak is willing to supply. His eyes swing back toward the ceiling. There’s an unmistakable twinge of bitterness in his voice. “It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. You shouldn’t even _be_ here. ‘Increase the dosage,’ he said! I’m beginning to wonder if Doctor Parmak was misleading me this entire time. Though I can’t bloody well fathom _why_.”

Garak leans forward. Parmak? _Kelas_ Parmak? That milquetoast doctor of Tain’s?

Before he can pose a follow-up question, Bashir is haring off in a new direction. “You must at least remember why you’re disguised as a Bajoran,” he says.

This is going surprisingly well. Garak had expected the human to put up _some_ resistance, to dissemble and delay, not immediately capitulate. Perhaps he expects to be rescued soon. He’s in for disappointment. Even if all of Section 31 were to bring down the forcefields and traps he’s erected, Garak doesn’t intend to give up so easily. “Refresh my memory.”

The doctor gives an impatient sigh. “The Obsidian Order. They sent you here undercover as a Bajoran tailor over a decade ago. We think it was to spy on the Bajoran underground, but we never figured out for sure. Please, Garak, say something. I feel like an idiot, lying here while you look at me like that! Is this ringing any bells?”

“My, how did you come to such _fanciful_ conclusions?”

“What do you mean, fanciful? There’s nothing fanciful about it! You _told_ me all of it yourself!” Bashir winces. “I mean, Serot did.”

“Did he.” Garak stands and leans forward until their faces are nearly touching. He takes satisfaction in how the human’s eyes widen in alarm. “I’m afraid I don’t believe you.”

“Y-You think I’m lying? I’m not! Serot told me everything—about you, the mission, about Tain—”

Garak wills his body not to react. These are amateurs, playing at spycraft, and they know about _Tain?_ “If you’d done half your homework, _Doctor,_ you’d know that my so-called disguise was quite thorough. My counterpart was in no state to tell you anything beyond how to sew a pretty dress. So I’ll ask you again. How did you _really_ come to your conclusions?”

A look of panic flitters across Bashir’s face as he realizes the depth of his mistake. It evaporates into a glare. “You’re not being fair! You didn’t give me a chance to finish!”

“There’s more to your tale?”

“Plenty.”

Garak sits back down and makes an expansive gesture.

Bashir’s eyes flick back and forth along some distant point, misting again. “This was my first posting out of Starfleet Medical. When I showed up, the Cardassians had taken off after the Occupation and left the place a mess. We were—the Federation, I mean—we were trying to get Bajor back on its feet again. One day, I stumbled into Serot’s shop on my way to the infirmary, and we hit it off. We became friends and—” The doctor’s voice drops off as he mutters under his breath.

“What was that?”

“I said _we fell in love_. These are our quarters. I suppose you figured that out by now. He was the first man I’d ever lived with. You know, I have to hand it to you, Garak, you did a brilliant job. Serot had his oddities, but I never suspected a thing. None of us did.

“About a year ago, Gul Dvoll and her crew contracted a highly contagious virus that was fatal to Cardassians if left untreated. I was able to synthesize an antiviral, but not before Serot came down with it himself. He refused treatment, but his organs were shutting down, and I—I couldn’t let him die. I brought him into the infirmary, and when I did a full bioscan, well, it was all there. Plain as the nose on your face.”

Garak nods, entertained. “And what did you do?”

“Once I had Serot stabilized, I called a meeting with the senior staff.”

“Naturally, the safety of the Federation was paramount.”

It’s intended as praise, but the doctor seems to have enough remaining dignity to look offended. “What else was I supposed to do? Cover it up? I had no idea how to handle something like this! I’d never even heard of the Obsidian Order. But you’re right, I had a duty, and I’m not going to apologize to you of all people for doing it. You’re lucky Sisko didn’t turn you over to the Bajoran Provisional Government right then. He wanted me to buy us time and find a way to jog Serot’s memory.

“I should’ve let Sisko turn him in. It would’ve saved us the nightmare with the dezothomide, and for all I know, the Bajorans might’ve given him a lighter sentence if we’d come forward. But, no, I had to protect Serot at every turn. All I did was foul it up. I thought the alphawave inducer would spare him a risky treatment by temporarily freeing your repressed memories.” Bashir snorts. “I suppose I should be grateful you’re in your right mind this time. Last time I met you, you held me at disruptor-point, choked me, and then tried to vaporize yourself.”

Garak raises a brow. “That doesn’t sound like something I’d do.”

“Right, you’re a real prince,” Bashir mutters. “What with drugging me and interrogating me in my own bedroom at knifepoint.”

“I’m disappointed that you’re not enjoying our conversation.” Garak revels in the indignant glare that sparks. This human is delightfully easy to provoke. “Tell me, what happened after you began this dezothomide treatment? You said it was recommended by Doctor Parmak?”

“The dezothomide was my idea, but he advised me, yes. Serot wasn’t keen on it at first. He was afraid your memories would poison him. Frankly, I was just as worried. But we’d tried everything else, and it was the only way. Do you—” The human clears his throat and his voice quavers. “Could I have some water? Or is dehydration part of my torture?”

Garak retrieves a glass from the table, kept precisely for this purpose. He lifts the human’s head just enough to keep him from choking as he pours the water down his throat. Once Bashir has gulped his fill, Garak returns to his seat. “Please, continue.”

Bashir licks the moisture from his lips. Taking a breath, he resumes. “Serot got his—your—memories back. It was hard on him, not just mentally, but physically. One of the side effects was resetting your brain chemistry. At this point the only thing about you that’s still Bajoran is your appearance.”

_More or less._

“Once Sisko told the Provisional Government, Serot was arrested. They had it out for him from the start. Suffice it to say, Serot took the plea deal and spent six months in prison. We were . . .” Bashir closes his eyes. “We were going to get married. Next week.”

There’s a great deal the human is omitting, but the details of his counterpart’s supposed legal travails don’t interest Garak quite yet. On the surface, it’s a convincing explanation, and ten years undiscovered is an exceptional record for the Order. Not even meticulous planning could cover all the contingencies. But this is not the way Garak imagined his career ending. He’d envisioned capture—that was to be expected—but ending in interrogation and death, not this hopeless fizzling. Dying in the field, in service to Cardassia, and not remembering who he was had been the best possible outcome. This, this is a _humiliation_. Felled by sentiment, and not even his own.

A convincing explanation, but only on the surface. Garak taps idly on the dagger. “Were you in love with him?”

“I said I am, didn’t I?”

Such defensiveness! “Why?”

“Why _what?”_

“Come now, Doctor Bashir, if you expect me to believe that you somehow fell in love with my imposter, surely you can tell me what it was about him that charmed you so! This should come naturally to you. Please, be descriptive.”

“I—you want me to tell you why I love Serot?” Bashir laughs in an approximation of embarrassment. “Well, first off, he’s charming—”

“How generic. You may as well claim that he was _lovable._ Need I remind you that I just used that very word?”

Bashir’s eyes flash with anger. “He’s _charming,_ goddammit. That’s what drew me to him when we first met. I would’ve bought out his entire store if it helped me see him again. Then I learned how kind, how generous and understanding he can be. I love that he’s honest about his feelings, how gentle he his. Everyone might dismiss him and call him boring, but I know he can be wickedly clever in the most unexpected ways. Shall I go on? I love how I can talk to him for hours, and how happy he makes me, and if I’m being perfectly blunt, Gar _ak_ , I’ve never met a man with a more talented mouth. If you catch my meaning.”

Garak inclines his head. He’s not about to be baited by such a clumsy attempt.

The veins along Bashir’s throat rise in stark relief against his skin as he struggles within the invisible bonds of the neuromuscular-blocking drug. His voice is choked with tears as he whispers, “Why are you doing this to me, Garak? What did I do?” His breath comes in stuttering gasps. “Please, is Serot okay? Tell me, is he still in there, or is he—is he gone? The last time I saw him, he was saying goodbye to me. I should’ve been able to tell. I should’ve. He’d been acting so strangely. He must’ve known something was wrong. Was he scared? Was he? God, Garak, just _tell_ me. If it was me, if it was something I did, I could never live with myself if I—” He dissolves into inarticulate sobbing.

As if magnetized, Garak’s fingers find their way into the human’s thick, wavy hair, brushing aside strands wet with sweat. “ _Shh, shh,”_ he soothes, caressing the man’s cheek, and at once Bashir goes quiet. Catching himself, Garak jerks back his hand. He squashes the impulse in a balled fist. But there’s no ignoring the way Bashir’s eyes had fluttered closed at the touch. Experimentally, he runs his knuckles along Bashir’s jaw. The human visibly relaxes with a sigh. “There,” Garak murmurs. “That’s better.”

“Oh.” Bashir sniffs, and the look in his eyes is altogether different. “ _Serot_ —”

“—is dead, Doctor, but I’m sure he’d appreciate your performance, were he here. I do hope Section 31 compensates you handsomely for your work. I’d say you’ve more than earned it.”

Bashir’s mouth hangs open in a parody of shock. “Section . . . _what?”_

Garak tsks in disappointment. “We had such an auspicious start, but it seems you’d rather cling to pretense.” He shrugs, affecting an air of professional indifference, and crosses the room to retrieve the medical tricorder. He flips it open.

From the bed, Bashir babbles, insisting that he’s telling the truth, but Garak is already considering his next move. If he had more time to properly survey his subject, if he had access to his tools, he’d be more confident in his results, but as he waves the tricorder’s wand in front of the human, he’s aware of the impossibility. The paralyzing compound will be wearing off much too soon. Such is the way of impromptu interrogation. “Do you deny, Doctor,” Garak says, “that you’re an agent of Section 31 or any other organization?”

Bashir must pick up on the edge in his voice, because he nearly squeaks, “I-I don’t know what that is.”

Garak folds the tricorder and sets it back on the dresser. How can the human expect him to believe that a Starfleet officer would not be familiar with Section 31? What’s the purpose of an intelligence service if it can’t inspire fear and caution in the people it protects?

“I’m a Starfleet doctor,” Bashir continues, “and that’s it. I know you’re scared, Garak. I’d be too if I wasn’t already terrified. But nobody’s going to hurt you. You’ve served your time. No one cares about what you used to be.”

 _No one cares._ The human intends the words to be calming, but they only make him angrier. He catches a glimpse of himself in the viewport, sees the reflected terror, and wipes it away behind an efficient mask. _What you used to be._ “Since I’m of little importance,” Garak snaps, “perhaps this was meant to monitor _you.”_

From his pocket he pulls out the silver monitoring device, the cylinder as small as a larish seed, and thrusts it underneath Bashir’s nose.

The human looks between it and Garak. “Is that—” Disbelief crosses his face. “Where’d you find that?”

“You tell me.”

“For the last time, Garak, I’m a doctor! I don’t know the first thing about putting up bloody surveillance devices. Was it in our quarters?” When Garak remains silent, watching the human closely, Bashir squeezes his eyes shut and hisses under his breath. “ _Fuck_. _Goddammit_ , Odo. Goddamn you, you’re going to get me _killed.”_

Garak closes his fist. “He can’t hear you, Doctor Bashir. Not anymore.”

“Garak, listen to me. I swear I never saw that before. I didn’t know it was there! Odo must’ve put it up, illegally, I might add, but if you let me go, I promise you, we’ll go down to security right now and have it out with him. He can get a little overzealous sometimes, but I doubt he meant any harm. We can get this straightened out and—”

The walls are falling inward, compressing him from all sides, suffocating him. At the word _harm,_ Garak’s tenuous grasp on his rage shatters. He brings the dagger down, planting it like an obsidian flag in the human’s gut, and clamps a hand over Bashir’s mouth to muffle his screams. “Is that the best you can do, Doctor?” Garak snarls in Kardasi. The human struggles to breathe. “‘Let’s go down to security’? You must think I’m a fool!”

Bashir’s eyes are wild and wide, his breath loud through his nostrils. After a time, his howling fades. When Garak’s confident he’s calmed down, he lets go.

“You, you _stabbed_ me,” Bashir gasps. “I can’t believe it. You stabbed me! My boyfriend!”

Garak pets the human’s hair in slow, mocking strokes, and observes the way the bright red blood seeps across the thin bed sheet around the blade. He’s lost control of himself and the situation. An abysmal turn of events. But he’ll be damned if he’ll give the human any indication that he’s anything but fully composed. “If you’re truly a doctor,” he drawls, back in Standard, “how long do you have left?”

Bashir swallows. His breath is coming more shallowly now. “It . . . depends. I can’t tell by simply looking if you . . . hit my intestines, and even if you did—” He laughs and lets out a sharp cry of pain. “Even if you did, by the time sepsis becomes an issue, my . . . my staff will wonder why I haven’t reported to duty. They’ll come looking for me.” He whimpers. “It’s the pain, mostly. Your concern should be shock, not blood loss.”

“I admit, you do have an explanation for most everything.”

“That’s because I’ve been telling the fucking _truth!”_ Another bout of pain sends him gasping for air.

“You expect me to believe that I’ve gone a dozen years living as a Bajoran, and the fact that I can’t recall a single minute of it is a happenstance of your treatment? How convenient. This scenario might be internally consistent, but it lacks a certain verisimilitude. It’ll take more than a few trained actors and your well-administered memory wipes to earn my cooperation.”

Bashir’s laughter takes on a hysterical, stuttering note. “You, you think this is some elaborate _hoax?_ That’s why you _stabbed_ me? Very good, Garak, you blew the lid off the whole charade. Top-notch work! Bang up job! You can come out, everyone! It’s over, Garak’s figured it all out!”

Garak glances at the dagger and considers giving it a twist. “You do like living dangerously, don’t you?”

“You’re unbelievable! You’re bloody paranoid!”

“Thank you,” Garak says, bowing his head.

“It’s not a compliment!”

“Isn’t it, though? Have you considered, if you were more suspicious of your surroundings, you might not be in your current predicament?”

“No, I haven’t! Oddly enough, not everyone goes through life expecting the people they care about to betray them. Let me go, Garak. I’ve told you everything, given you the details of my personal life, confessed my love for your, your _counterpart,_ or whatever you two are calling each other, and none of that matters, does it? Tell me what you want! How do I get it into your twisty Cardassian skull that I’m not a threat?”

Garak begins to argue, his rage renewed with the human’s sniveling insolence, but the force of the words, carrying with them a ringing truth, strikes him at his core.

_Oh, Elim, what have you done?_

In the Order, it was his duty to search for machinations within machinations, to remain focused on the patterns and question every easy answer. But he isn’t in the Order anymore, is he? He’d been so resolute, so determined to unravel Bashir’s plot, it never occurred to him that there was nothing to uncover.

That isn’t entirely true. The thought did occur, but he had discounted it because such a reality was too painful to admit. Another mistake. It wounds his professional pride. Garak shakes his head. An intelligence officer has no conscience and no ego. How easily he forgets that rule.

Perhaps sensing Garak’s waning enthusiasm, Bashir lowers his voice. “The Occupation’s over, Garak,” he whispers. “Cardassia lost. If you were in a position of power, if anyone cared about your mission, that was . . . a long time ago. I wish I knew more than that, but that’s it. I’m sorry, but it’s just you and me.”

Garak backs away from the bed to collapse into the chair. Twelve years. All the work leading up to it. Gone. For the first time, he can feel those years, the passing time seeping into his joints with a ravaging indifference. This is what he deserves. He’d been too clever for his own good. The Order must’ve declared him lost, not even worthy of termination, and moved on without him. And Tain. He can’t even _think_ about Tain.

The human’s whimpering turns into a sob, drawing Garak’s attention. Bashir’s limbs tremble, the tremors spreading as the paralysis wears off. He writhes against the blood-soaked sheets and mutters a slurred request for medical assistance. If it’s a farce, it’s most excellently constructed.

Leaning forward, Garak pats the human’s hand. “Doctor, I think I’m beginning to believe you.”

“Oh, _grand_ ,” Bashir says and passes out.


	4. Chapter 4

The brig’s overhead lights are bright, as if purposely adjusted to sear Cardassian eyes, and the force field emits an erratic hum that grates on the nerves. It isn’t an atmosphere conducive to sleep, but Garak’s managed far worse. After so many weary hours in a state of fight-or-flight alertness, it takes only tucking his chin to his chest to drift off.

Bashir’s combadge had been safe in Garak’s pocket, out of reach should the doctor shake off the paralyzing compound ahead of schedule. Garak had turned the device over in his hand, considering. Was this what he wanted to do? If he injected Bashir with another dose, it could buy him enough time to find a way off the station undetected. After all, Bashir had claimed he was unlikely to die of blood loss. Surely another hour wouldn’t make a difference to his recovery.

Garak had glanced at the doctor’s bloodied, unconscious form on the bed and made up his mind. _I’m going to regret this,_ he thought as he keyed the combadge’s gold surface and requested an emergency medical team to Doctor Bashir’s quarters. Then, as an afterthought, he called security.

By the time Garak had deactivated his protective force fields and traps, both teams had arrived. “He’s in the bedroom,” Garak greeted them with a smile. The medics swept past without another glance. Garak nodded to the rest of his guests. “Security Chief Odo, welcome.”

Odo folded his arms over his chest. “What’s this about, Mister Pela?”

Before Garak could reply, there was a gasp from the bedroom, followed by an oath from one of the Bajoran medics. Sidestepping Garak, Odo strode into the bedroom, his security officers trailing behind. Evidently Bashir had revived as his medics were prepping him for transport. “ _Don’t hurt him, please,”_ Bashir was slurring, _“he didn’t know what he was doing. Please . . .”_

Odo turned to stare at Garak. “Out with it, Mister Pela. What happened? Who attacked him?”

“That would be me,” Garak said. It took all his remaining trust in his instincts to raise his hands in a show of docility. “And as I was about to tell you, I’m not Pela. Perhaps we should discuss it at length—once you arrest me, of course.”

Garak had to hand it to him: Odo had been _more than_ willing to do just that. 

A woman’s voice echoes down the brig’s corridor, cutting through Garak’s meditative calm. “Yes, Odo, right now!” she calls, far louder than necessary. “Where is he?”

Garak catches scraps of muttering, then the asynchronous click of two pairs of heels. When he lifts his head, he finds a Bajoran woman frowning at him from the other side of the force field. Her uniform is of the same unique design as Security Chief Odo’s, only a fetching shade of red that complements her close-cropped hair.

“There he is, Nerys,” Odo says with a one-handed flourish. “Satisfied?”

She shoots Garak a cool, suspicious glare. The Bajoran standard, really. How pleased she must be to have a Cardassian caged and under close observation. A snide remark forms on the tip of Garak’s tongue, but he reconsiders. If this is the Major Kira Nerys from the crew records, then perhaps, for now, he’d better remain silent.

“Bashir’s an idiot if he couldn’t tell the difference,” she says. “This one _sits_ differently.”

“Doctor Bashir isn’t very observant, outside the infirmary.”

Garak smiles in wordless agreement. As he meets and holds Kira’s gaze, her scowl drops away, and her eyes shine with an intense emotion Garak recognizes at once. She looks like a woman at a funerary rite, like he's the body on display. It's sorrow, marrow deep. Then, as quickly as the expression appears, it's gone.

She turns away. “I’ve seen all I need,” she says.

Odo casts Garak a sidelong look before showing her the way out.

With a sigh, Garak settles back into his cot and closes his eyes. He drifts asleep again, only to be interrupted a half-hour later by Odo escorting a loud, stumbling man down the brig’s narrow corridor. As he passes, the man peers into Garak’s cell and chuckles. “Back again? What’d you do _this_ time?”

“Move along, Mister Tavolis,” Odo says, his drawl much-aggrieved as he prods the man into a nearby cell. “For someone drunk and disorderly at seven in the morning, you should worry about your own conduct.”

Odo is activating the force field around the other man’s cell when Garak stands. “Excuse me, Chief of Security Odo—”

“It’s just Odo, Mister Garak—”

“And it’s just Garak. Isn’t that a happy coincidence?”

Odo sighs. “What do you want, Garak?”

“I was hoping you could tell me when I can expect to see Commander Sisko regarding my situation.”

“As luck would have it, he should be coming on duty right about now. I’ve already sent him my report on your recent . . . misadventures. Doctor Bashir should be doing the same. Once he’s out of the infirmary, that is. I’m sure Commander Sisko will get around to you today. Now, if that’s all—”

Garak steps closer to the force field and slips into a posture that radiates earnestness. “I’ve never encountered a changeling before. Are your facial features modeled after any particular species?”

“Not really.” Odo shifts his stance in obvious discomfort. “I’ve had a hard time mimicking the faces of most humanoids.”

“I see. I find that surprising, since you’ve done such a remarkable job with your uniform. If I may make one suggestion—you might try incorporating a few seams.” Garak indicates several locations on his own tunic where the fabric has been joined. “For added authenticity.”

Odo glances between Garak and his own uniform. A second later, seams begin to rise along the shoulders and arms of the simulated fabric, trailing down to the legs of his pants in crisp lines. “Better?”

It’s subtle, but the shift is unsettling all the same. Garak nods in slow approval and wonders what other forms of changeling prowess Odo has up his supposed sleeve. What a fascinating creature.

“I’ll go replicate your breakfast,” Odo says. “If you have any requests, you better make them now. Something tells me you’re not interested in your usual hasperat soufflé.”

Garak couldn’t be less enthused about eating right now; not with an extended prison sentence rising in his horizon. Odo has already informed him that violating the terms of his parole by gravely injuring a Starfleet officer will mean a swift trip to a maximum security facility on Bajor. When Garak points out that he _isn’t_ Pela and shouldn’t be held to account for a trial he had no part in, Odo favors him with a thin smile. _Nice try_ , it says.

Ah, well. He _really_ should’ve left Bashir to bleed out and commandeered a shuttlecraft while he had the chance.

Perhaps it’s not too late. His fingers slip into his pocket and brush against the surveillance device. All he has to do is get a message to Tain.

Garak takes polite bites of the tojal Odo brings him and, pushing the bowl aside, closes his eyes to await Commander Sisko’s appearance.

He’s once again mercifully close to falling back asleep when he hears someone shuffling down the corridor. _What now?_ Exasperated, Garak snaps his head to glare at the newcomer and looks up in surprise as the human steps into view. “Doctor,” he says.

“Even after six months,” Bashir says with a shy smile, folding his arms behind his back, “I still can’t get used to seeing you in there.”

Garak studies Bashir’s posture, the way he’s fidgeting. What is he doing here, if not to exact revenge? Garak rises to his feet. “What a relief to see you’ve recovered.”

“It was close, but you didn’t damage any organs. I’ll be good as new in a couple of weeks.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

Bashir continues to smile. For a long moment, they do nothing but stare at each other. Garak waits for Bashir to buckle under the silence, to flee the brig and never come back, but he doesn’t move.

“For the record,” Bashir says at last, “I won’t be pressing charges against you. Odo took some convincing, but he’s come around to my side of things.”

Garak is struck speechless. Is this man insane? Surely the doctor hasn’t _forgiven_ him. Is this an example of that infantile Federation belief that everyone deserves a ‘second chance’? Garak fears the answer, but he needs to ask. “Tell me, Doctor. Is your lack of self-preservation a human trait, or unique to you?”

Bashir releases a small chuckle. “Why, are you planning on stabbing me again?”

“You have no way of knowing.”

That seems to sober him. “Maybe, but that’s beside the point. I know what it must’ve been like, Garak. You were in a place you didn’t recognize, in a Bajoran body, surrounded by people you never met. You were disoriented. I can’t very well blame you for reacting precisely the way you were trained.”

It’s an insulting mischaracterization, and although Bashir has the sense not to say it, Garak is fully aware of what he’s insinuating—that Garak was scared. It reeks of pity and condescension. “While I appreciate your compassion and Federation _forbearance_ , I’m hardly a mindless victim of circumstance. I was fully in control of my actions, and I’ve already accepted responsibility—”

“Before you start in on the imperious Cardassian routine, Garak—”

“Routine? _Imperious?”_ Is the human _goading_ him? Garak takes another step toward the force field. “You’re the one who’s interrupting me!”

“Terribly sorry about that,” Bashir deadpans.

“I accept your apology.”

“Listen, Garak, I don’t want to argue with you, but you’ve got the wrong idea. I might understand why you did it, but that isn’t the only reason I asked Odo to drop the charges. This isn’t even _about_ you. You could’ve stabbed me a hundred times, and it wouldn’t have made a difference. I _can’t_ let you be locked up again. I just can't.”

 _Ah_. Of course. This isn’t about him, indeed. _We can’t have poor innocent Pela locked up for crimes he didn’t commit, now can we?_

A man’s voice calls out, “Am I coming at a bad time, gentlemen?”

“Sir,” Bashir says. “No, it’s fine. We were just talking.”

Garak turns his attention on the second human as he draws into his line of sight. This man wears the red Starfleet uniform designated for command, and Garak recognizes him at once from the crew rosters. “Commander Sisko, I presume?”

“I am,” Sisko says with a cautious edge. “And you must be Mister Garak.”

“Just Garak, please.”

Sisko raises a single brow and glances over his shoulder, at Bashir.

“Bit weird, isn’t it?” says Bashir.

“You’re sure it isn’t an act, Doctor?”

“Sir, with all due respect, I think I’d know if Serot were having us on! Besides, I can’t imagine what his motivation would be to—”

Sisko raises a hand, cutting him off. “It was a simple yes or no question.” Although it’s profoundly offensive to be referenced while he’s standing directly in front of them, Garak can’t help but find the exchange amusing. “Well, Garak,” Sisko says, “it looks like we have a lot to talk about. Constable Odo’s been kind enough to lend us his office—it’ll save you the walk to Ops.”

Garak smiles, appreciating the polite subtlety of the maneuver. He is, after all, too much of a security risk to be allowed anywhere near the station’s command center. “I’m at your disposal, Commander.”

Soon Garak finds himself in the security office, pressing his thumb to document after document, signing another man’s name until Odo officially releases him from custody. With a nod, the changeling steps aside, allowing Sisko to take over.

“Have a seat, Garak,” Sisko says, extending an arm across the desk. “You look tired. Have you ever had coffee?”

The word is vaguely familiar. Garak recalls it’s a Terran beverage similar to raktajino. Given his predicament he’d much rather indulge in something _stiffer_ , but he merely says, “No, I haven’t.”

“He won’t like it,” Bashir predicts, hovering beside Garak’s chair like a persistent fly.

Sisko’s face splits into a wide grin. As he crosses to the replicator, Garak wonders if he’s about to be poisoned. “Let’s find out. Two coffees, black, Sisko’s special blend.”

Garak can smell the coffee, rich and aromatic, the instant it materializes. Sisko passes him a mug and takes the second for himself, circling back around the desk to sit down. “Ethiopia Yirgacheffe,” he says with a cheerful raise of his cup. “One of my favorites.”

Garak opens his mouth just enough to sip the steam wafting from the mug. It’s tart, savory-sweet, pleasantly floral. Still, he waits for Sisko to drink before trying it himself. The bitter aftertaste sneaks up on him, making his tongue curl.

“Verdict?”

It might be palatable, Garak decides. With a significant helping of sweetener. The warm ceramic is turning his fingers pink. He abandons the mug on the desk. “It’s very similar to mekla root tea.”

In his periphery, Garak notices Bashir smile.

“It’s an acquired taste,” Sisko says and picks up a PADD. “Doctor, I have your report. You’re free to go.”

Bashir makes no move to leave. Instead he gives Garak a desperate, pleading look. Begging him to stay. The nerve of the human, expecting to listen in on his private affairs. Garak stares back in silent challenge, willing him to back down, but Bashir’s pout only becomes more pronounced, weakening him like fast-acting poison. The man is truly insufferable, and Garak’s worse for being swayed by such a ploy. “It’s all right, Commander,” Garak says. “Some of this may concern him.”

Bashir’s expression floods with gratitude. Garak ignores him, his focus on Sisko as the commander squares his shoulders in a posture that broadcasts authority. “Doctor Bashir and the constable brought me up to speed on what they think happened,” Sisko says, all his earlier ebullience gone. “Where do I even begin? You detained a member of my crew against his will, interrogated him, and assaulted him. If that’s how you treat your own romantic partner, I should turn you back over to the Bajoran authorities right now and let the Magistrate deal with you.”

A fair assessment, but Bashir frowns, begins to argue. “Commander—”

Sisko talks over him. “I realize the circumstances are extraordinary, but you’re damned lucky Doctor Bashir is a forgiving man, Mister Garak, because I’m not. Not when it comes to the safety of my people. If you plan to stay on this station, I expect you to be a model citizen. If Odo catches you with anything sharper than a butter knife, or if I get so much as a _noise_ _violation_ , I won’t hesitate to recommend that you serve your remaining time in Gallitep. Is that understood?”

Garak nods once. “However—”

“I’m not finished yet. I’ll be contacting the Bajoran High Magistrate with an update on your situation. I’ll leave it up to him to decide if any revisions should be made to your sentence or the terms of your parole.” 

“Sir,” Bashir cuts in, “is that really necessary? Can’t we wait until—” Sisko gives him a sharp look, and Garak admires the way Bashir wavers beneath it. After a few brave seconds of maintaining eye contact, Bashir cracks and folds. He looks away. “Never mind,” he murmurs.

“If I may, Commander,” Garak begins, “we both agree that I don’t belong on this station. Frankly, Bajor’s insistence that I stay here is ludicrous. From what Odo’s told me of these supposed ‘parole terms,’ I’m not permitted to communicate with anyone in the Union unless it’s through mandated channels, but if you’d allow me a chance to speak to my contacts on Cardassia, I’m sure Central Command can make an arrangement that will satisfy Bajor’s need for retribution and grant me transport home. It is, as you humans say, a _win-win_.”

Beside him, Bashir tenses. Sisko’s eyes flick to the doctor. “You didn’t tell him?”

Garak suppresses the building urge to sigh. “Tell him what, Doctor?”

“It . . . must’ve slipped my mind,” he says. To Garak’s trained ears, the lie is an off-key note in a melody growing more discordant by the second. It sets him on edge. “Garak,” Bashir says, “I’m sorry, but you can’t go back to Cardassia.”

“And why is that? Do you forbid it?”

Bashir shifts again and looks frantically to his commanding officer.

“Because you’re a Federation citizen,” Sisko says.

In the past two days, he’s had to swallow a great many disturbing and bizarre concepts—from questionable new fashion trends to Cardassia’s withdrawal from Bajor—but this one tests his patience. Garak rubs his forehead and finds it damp. He takes a long breath and keeps his voice mild, as if speaking to a particularly stupid child. “Commander, this may come as a surprise, but my people are notably—” What is the Standard word? “Xenophobic. The Cardassian Union strictly prohibits dual citizenship. The doctor might’ve thought he was being romantic by offering Federation citizenship to my counterpart, but it isn’t legally valid. Now, if you _don’t mind—”_

“It _is_ valid,” Bashir says. He turns away and covers his mouth with a hand. The words are muffled as he spits them out. “ _SerotreliquishedhisCardassiancitizenship.”_

Garak twists around. “ _What?”_

“It was the only way. With the trial going on, we were afraid Cardassia would get involved, and I _couldn’t_ let them take him back there—I know what you Cardassians consider justice. Serot didn’t care if he never saw Cardassia again, and since we were getting married, we thought—we thought it made sense.”

“Doctor,” Garak says, struggling to keep his anger in check, “do you have _any_ idea what that means?”

“It means you’re exiled,” Bashir whispers.

The words are a suffocating weight on his chest. Blood rushes deafeningly loud in his ears, and for an instant Garak isn’t sure if he’s about to black out or scream. He can feel three pairs of eyes studying him, far away. _Cut by my own knife._ No, he may as well use that human turn of phrase, coined by their hack Shakespeare: _hoisted by my own petard._ It almost makes him laugh. Much as he wants to berate the doctor for his role, this entire disaster is one of his own making.

Garak catches his fingers drumming against the armrest in a ghostly affectation. “You couldn’t have devised this scheme on your own,” Garak says tightly, stilling his fingers. “Whose idea was it? Who authorized it? Who filed the paperwork?”

“That would be Gul Dvoll,” Sisko says.

“Ah, our former Prefect.” That adds an extra layer of complexity. Of all people, she should’ve known he wasn’t in his right mind. If she’d been doing her job, she never would’ve allowed him to make such a rash decision. “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, Commander,” says Garak, “I’d appreciate the chance to speak to her about my _revised_ situation.”

Sisko shrugs. “I don’t see why not. I’ll send her a message, but I’ll warn you, she’s been stationed in the Demilitarized Zone. It might take some time to reach her.”

“I can wait.”

He doesn’t have a choice. _Exiled_. He’ll believe it when it comes from Tain’s mouth.

“You’re taking this better than I expected,” Bashir says quietly.

Garak favors him with a thin smile. “I’m not the type to be easily discouraged, Doctor.”

“Glad to hear it,” Sisko says. “Unless there’s something else you wanted to discuss, that about covers it. Constable, why don’t you show Garak around the station and help him get accustomed to—”

Bashir steps forward. “Sir, I can take care of all that. I already know Serot’s access codes and where he keeps everything at home—I’m really better suited for the task.”

“Are you sure about that, Doctor?” Sisko says. “He did just stab you.”

“It’s not something I’m liable to forget.” He turns to Garak. “Assuming it’s all right with you, that is.”

Garak takes issue with the idea that he needs an escort, especially if it means spending another second in the doctor’s presence, but he merely inclines his head, not about to argue over such a trivial matter. All he wants right now is a long shower and some time alone. “That sounds reasonable.”

“And one more thing,” Bashir says, spinning toward Odo, “do me a favor and keep your damned surveillance devices out of our quarters! I don’t care what your reasons are, you have no right to spy on us!”

“What is he talking about, Constable?” Sisko says.

Odo’s brow approximates a frown. “I don’t know. Doctor, you found a surveillance device in your quarters?”

“Not me. Garak did. He wouldn’t tell me where exactly but—are you saying you had absolutely nothing to do with it?”

“I don’t bug anyone’s quarters without good reason, Doctor.”

“Well, if you didn’t put the thing up, then who did?”

“I’d have to examine the device to find out.”

“I might be able to help with that,” Garak says, intrigued. Granted, he’d rather investigate the device’s origins himself, but perhaps a gesture of good faith is in order. He feels around in his pocket and, finding the tiny cylinder, deposits it into Odo’s open palm. “You’re welcome to keep it, Constable.”

Odo looks alarmed. “You had this in your pocket?”

“Just a little bit of detritus. I took the liberty of deactivating the device, but that shouldn’t stop you from figuring out who placed it.”

“Could it have been Mister Pela?” Sisko asks.

Garak pauses at the threshold of the office and smiles. “What an interesting idea, Commander. I hadn’t thought of that. But I very much doubt he had the capability.” He nods and follows Bashir out.


	5. Chapter 5

“The infirmary is back that way,” Bashir says as he gestures across the Promenade like an excitable child, “and over there is Quark’s bar. We don’t go there very often, except to have dinner or use the holosuites. Fair warning, Garak, this place is a bit of a gossip mill. I wouldn’t be surprised if half the station doesn’t already know about your, ah, situation.”

“Becoming the topic of conversation for a few idle Bajorans is the least of my worries right now,” Garak snaps.

Beside him, Bashir stiffens as if he’s been slapped, and Garak hears Mila’s voice chiding: _Really, Elim, where are your manners?_ He might look like a Bajoran, but that’s no excuse to be uncivil. Garak glances to Bashir and, softening his tone by way of apology, says, “You mentioned that my counterpart’s tailor shop is nearby?”

The human perks up, smiling wide. “You want to see it? Come on, I’ll show you.” Bashir’s hand rests on Garak’s elbow, steering him gently as he leads the way down the Promenade, and Garak has to grit his teeth to keep from shaking him off. Thankfully it isn’t a long walk. Within a minute, Bashir stops before a darkened storefront. “Here we are.”

Garak looks the spot up and down. “It’s very—”

“Mister Pela!” a man calls from behind them. Garak pretends not to notice. A moment later, the man appears with an indignant huff. “ _Mister Pela,_ you said you’d have my jacket ready yesterday, but you didn’t open your shop and I told you I needed it for my daughter’s Itanu ceremony tonight!”

Sweet father of the Union, is this what he has to deal with every day?

“Mister Rolin,” Bashir interjects, “I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding. This is Mister _Garak.”_

“What, his twin?”

“No, he’s—remember how Serot is a Cardassian?”

“Yes, yes, he was a spy for the spoonheads. Get on with it.”

Garak twitches, mortified first by the slur, then by the matter-of-fact nature of the statement, as if it’s _common knowledge._ How many people know about him?

“Well, Garak here is his Cardassian persona.”

“Charmed,” Garak says.

The Bajoran man looks at Garak, then back to Bashir. “What about my jacket?” he says, and Garak has to respect the man’s persistence. “Did Pela finish it or not?”

“Hold on.” Bashir ducks his head and, mumbling apologies, begins tapping a code into the door panel. When the door slides open, he hurries across the shop, the Bajoran man at his heels. “I think he kept his alterations over here. Let’s see. Is this it?”

Garak stops at the threshold, his eyes drifting from one rack of clothing to the next. It isn’t a large shop, but it’s substantial, and fully stocked. He can recognize hints of Bajoran design in the cut and colors of the fabric, but the overall effect is wildly divergent from what he remembers. Fashion, along with the rest of the galaxy, has long moved on without him.

“No, no, my jacket is mauve!”

“Sorry, is that a type of red?”

A sweater of undyed Vitarian wool catches Garak’s eye. He feels the checkered texture of seed stitch between his fingertips, stretches the ribbing along the cuffs, and tests the strength of the seams with a rough tug. It holds up to the strain admirably.

“It’s purple. How can you not know that?”

“I’m a bloody doctor, not a tailor! Here, how about this one?”

Garak lets go of the sweater and turns around. Behind the rack of cold weather clothing, there are shelves stacked with pants and folded tunics, and yet more racks of blouses and dresses tailored for a multitude of species. There’s even a display of undergarments. He made _all_ of this?

“Yes, that’s the one! How much do I owe you?”

“I don’t know—how much did you usually pay?”

The Bajoran man rustles through his pockets and pushes his payment into Bashir’s hand. “Here. Give that to Pela when you see him. When’s he coming back, anyway?”

Bashir stares down at the gold-pressed latinum in his palm. “I don’t know if he is.”

“Well, then I hope his Cardassian persona is faster with his alterations.” The man slings his jacket over a shoulder and gives Garak a skeptical look as he moves for the door. Garak favors him with a thin smile.

Once he’s gone, Bashir leans heavily on the counter and sighs. “They’re usually nicer than that,” Bashir murmurs, squeezing the bridge of his nose. He looks as tired as Garak feels. After a time, he shakes his head and manages his usual smile. “Welcome to your shop, Garak. What do you think?” In typical human fashion, he doesn’t wait for an answer. Instead he crosses to the front of the shop, suddenly brimming with eagerness as he announces, “This is where we first met.”

Everything from the arrangement of the mannequins to the faintly floral scent of the room is as foreign as the rest of the station. Even if he made these clothes with his own hands, they may as well have been crafted by a stranger; there’s nothing of himself here. “This is where you met Pela, you mean,” Garak says.

Bashir dismisses the critical distinction with a wave of his hand. “That’s just a technicality, isn’t it? If Serot had access to your memories, it stands to reason you can access his.” He raises his brows expectantly. “So, do you remember anything?”

 _No, I don't think I’_ _ll be playing this game with you. Not now, not ever. You won_ _’_ _t like where it ends._  “Doctor, I fail to see the point—”

“Come on, Garak, try to keep an open mind. I know, how about this?” Bashir moves to stand beside a mannequin in the window. “It was two years ago. I came in to have a look at a jacket you had in the window here. I was trying to figure out if it was velvet, and you appeared out of nowhere and—” Bashir's smile widens. “You said it would bring out my eyes.”

How embarrassing.

“I was tongue-tied like a teenager. I bought the jacket without even thinking about it. We haggled a little, and after that I couldn’t get you out of my head. Well? How about that? Do you remember anything?”

“Much as I’d like to help,” Garak lies, “I’m afraid my fatigue is affecting my concentration. Perhaps we might continue this conversation at a later time?”

Bashir’s shoulders fall forward in disappointment, but he relents, nodding. “I can’t say I blame you. Neither of us got all that much sleep last night, did we? All right, let me just close up here before any more customers sneak inside.”

Bashir is about to lock up when a red-faced human in a Starfleet uniform bursts in. “There you are!” he shouts without the dignity of preamble. “Care to explain what’s going on?”

“Chief,” Bashir says. “Is everything all right?”

“You tell me. I just asked Commander Sisko about you, and he said you were showing _him_ around, like he’s the Romulan ambassador.” The man, Chief O’Brien, jerks his chin in Garak’s direction. “Right after he put you in the infirmary, no less. Are you off your rocker?”

“Miles, it’s fine, it was just a misunderstanding.”

“That’s what you’re calling it, are you? I’ve had plenty of misunderstandings, and none of them ended with anyone getting stabbed.”

“Your concern is touching,” Bashir says with more bite, “but I’m perfectly safe. I promise.”

“Fine, Julian, have it your way. Heaven forbid should anybody act like they care about you. But if you need it, there’s always a couch with your name on it.” O’Brien turns his attention back to Garak. “You better treat this man right,” he says, clamping a hand on Bashir’s shoulder, “because if you hurt him again, there’ll be hell to pay. And one more thing—” He points a thick finger beneath Garak’s nose. “Stay away from my wife and kid.”

Garak has never been terribly impressed by threats, especially when delivered by men he can have permanently incapacitated with little effort. “I’ll be sure to be on good behavior,” he says. “I wouldn’t want a visit from the Hero of Setlik III, would I?”

O’Brien flinches and lowers his finger.

“Setlik III?” asks Bashir.

With his eyes still narrowed on Garak, O’Brien backs up a pace. He looks to Bashir. “I mean it, sir. He might look like Mister Pela, but you can’t trust him.” Only when he’s out of arm’s reach does he turn his back on Garak and hurry out of the shop.

Garak watches through the window as O’Brien disappears into a throng of Bajorans. “What interesting friends you have.”

“Sorry about that,” Bashir says, back to locking up with practiced efficiency. “He means well, but he’s never much cared for Cardassians. I don’t want to make excuses for him, but you know how it is. He’s from another era. I promise it’s not bad, living here. Everyone will be much nicer once they’re used to you.”

Once, he had all of Cardassia at his fingertips. Now he must aspire to be tolerated by Bajorans and bigots. This was most assuredly not what he had in mind when he agreed to this assignment. Bashir calls the lights and together they leave the shop behind.

This time, as they continue down the corridor, Bashir’s hand finds the small of Garak’s back. The warm, gentle pressure would be pleasant, even _welcome_ if it were from a longtime lover—he’s strolled the Tarlak sector’s gardens on many a winter evening with a gloved hand resting on the vulnerable curve of his lumbar vertebrae—but from Bashir it sends a crawling sensation across his skin. It chafes like cheap wool, confines like a vice, and Garak immediately regrets the loss of the dagger. The doctor might be persuaded to keep his hands to himself if one were to suddenly become _detached_. Perhaps then he’d revise his policy on not pressing charges.

Bashir smiles. “Hey, you. What’s so funny?”

“Oh, I was only considering a solution to a rather insignificant problem. Tell me, were you and Commander Sisko ever intimately involved?”

The question has the desired effect. Bashir gapes in shock. The hand falls away. “Me and . . . Garak, he’s my superior officer! What on Earth would make you think that?”

“I couldn’t help but notice a certain degree of tension between the two of you.”

“I can’t say I’ve ever been one of his favorites. It only got worse after the whole secret-Cardassian-spy debacle. One time, I might’ve chased him around Ops and questioned his orders in front of his entire staff.”

“Oh dear.”

“You can say that again.”

The idiom throws Garak off for a moment, but he quickly recovers. “Still, you must admit he’s attractive, for a human. I imagine he has an impressive . . .” Garak smiles. “Temper.”

Bashir goes quiet. He clenches his jaw so tightly that an artery throbs in his neck. Human egos are such fragile things. As they step into the turbolift, Bashir crosses his arms over his chest. “Habitat ring,” he mumbles.

The silence that follows is luxurious. As the turbolift fires up and starts moving, Garak keeps the hunched, sulking human in his periphery. The man wouldn’t have lasted a day under a real interrogation. Garak has met and felled countless men like Bashir, men who thought the universe owed them all its riches because they happened to be handsome and of fortunate birth. Taking those unearned advantages from them, watching their confidence flag, had always given Garak particular satisfaction. _You rely too much on your youth and good looks, Doctor. It’s fleeting. Believe me._

The silence is short-lived. Once they exit the turbolift, Bashir has shaken off his brooding and is smiling again. “You know,” he says, “you move differently than Serot does.”

Despite himself, Garak feels a glimmer of interest. “Oh?”

“I can’t explain it. You’re more . . . slithery.”

“Slithery?”

“Not in a bad way or anything!” Bashir’s laugh is tight in his throat, and Garak can’t help but find his sudden nervousness oddly endearing. “I mean,” he blathers on, hands waving through the air as if to distract from his imagined faux pas, “I don’t think you’re a snake. That’d be silly. You don’t even have scales. Not that there’s anything wrong with snakes. Or scales, for that matter! I rather like reptiles.” Bashir squeezes his eyes shut. “See what I mean? It’s already happening.”

“I don’t think I follow.”

“The tongue-tied teenager thing,” Bashir explains. His cheeks have taken on a shade of crimson, but when he opens his eyes again he no longer seems embarrassed. Before Garak can stop him, he reaches out and brushes a strand of hair from Garak’s eyes. “There, that’s better.”

Startled, Garak swats the hand away. “Do you _mind?”_

Bashir shrinks back at once. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I can’t help it, I’m so used to touching you. We were always so physical with each other. I can’t seem to keep my hands off you.”

“Please, Doctor. Try harder.”

Bashir looks at him with open hurt. Murmuring more apologies, he continues leading them across the habitat ring to their shared quarters, quickening his pace with long strides.

The instant they cross through the door and into the inviting warmth, Garak plucks off the Bajoran earring and tosses the damned thing into the replicator. Good riddance. He’s about to dematerialize it out of existence when Bashir yelps, “ _No, no, no!”_ and dives for it. His hands trip the safety overrides before the beam can initialize and, cradling the earring, he sinks to the floor.

Crisis averted, Bashir glares up at Garak like he tried to vaporize a beloved pet.

 _And people have called_ me _eccentric._

“Cardassians don’t wear jewelry,” Garak explains. It’s for the best he didn’t give the betrothal bracelet the same treatment, considering the human’s overreaction. “You may keep it if you like.”

Still staring at him, Bashir tucks the earring into a pocket. Bizarre man.

Garak’s legs bring him back to the bedroom. Someone has come in their absence and changed out the mattress. The garish Starfleet-issue linens are freshly made and devoid of bloodstains. In the dining area, he can hear Bashir murmuring. If Garak is to make his escape, he’ll need to find a way to get rid of the good doctor.

There’s a thud of footsteps as Bashir appears, a mug of steaming tea in hand. “Here, habibi.”

Garak accepts it out of weary, reflexive politeness. “What did you call me?”

Bashir’s eyes widen and he looks away. “Habibi. It’s an Arabic term of endearment. Like ‘my beloved’ or ‘sweetheart.’ My family always called me that when I was young, and I suppose it stuck. Honestly, it’s the only Arabic I know. Well, besides _telhas teezi_ , but that’s not really for polite conversation. I’m sorry, I’m doing it again, aren’t I?”

The question jars Garak out of his reverie. “Doing what again?”

“Making you uncomfortable.”

Despite everything, Garak laughs. “There’s no need to worry, Doctor.” He takes a measured sip of the offered tea. “I’ve faced far stranger situations than this before.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Then you’ll have to take my word for it.”

Bashir nods, staring into the empty bedroom. After a time, he says, “You want me to go, don’t you? I mean, we can’t—” His eyes flick to the bed. “You must want your space, without me hovering about.” The human’s face is a study in misplaced hope, as if he expects Garak to abandon all logic and good sense to climb into bed with him.

“That would be most kind of you,” Garak says.

That pout returns again, but Garak has already built a healthy resistance to it. “I suppose I could always sleep in the infirmary,” says Bashir. “After Serot kicked me out that first time, I put a cot in my office just in case. If you need anything, you can call me on the comm system. What else? Oh, the refresher is down the hallway, and if you get hungry, Gul Dvoll programmed the replicator to make this amazing stew. I think she called it—”

“Doctor.” Garak lays a hand on his elbow, using Bashir’s overfamiliarity against him as he steers him out. “I’ll be fine. Go and rest.”

Bashir looks about to protest, but nods again. “Okay. I’ll see you in a few hours.” He’s moving to go when he stops. “Oh, and Garak?”

“Yes, Doctor?”

“Sweet dreams.”

Once the door swishes shut behind the human, Garak sets the tea aside and crosses the room to sit before the computer terminal. He leans back until the screen comes into focus and sends a comm message to Constable Odo.

The response is nearly immediate: Odo will have to clear it with Commander Sisko first, but he doesn’t anticipate any difficulties processing the request. Garak can expect a more thorough answer within an hour or two.

Pleased, Garak stifles a yawn and makes his way toward the refresher. He hasn’t been looking forward to this, but if he’s going to be trapped in this Bajoran body for any length of time, he’ll have to get used to maintaining it. Much as Garak would rather return to his own form, there is no one outside of Cardassia he can trust to perform the surgery. He isn’t fool enough to put his faith in Federation or Bajoran doctors; they’re more likely to kill him on the operating table (whether deliberately or through incompetence is immaterial), or, at best, botch the job. If their uniform design is anything to go by, attention to detail is not a culturally valued skill set.

He avoids the mirror as he strips down, ripping away each layer of clothing as if it’s a bandage, the pain coming in quick, sharp pinpricks as his skin meets the air. It takes him nearly five minutes of fiddling with the sonic shower to find a setting that doesn’t flay his soft skin but is strong enough to thoroughly cleanse any dirt and oils. As the stall vibrates and hums, Garak stands beneath the stream with his hands above his head. It’s a small indignity, but preferable to washing with water, hands, and soap.

The shower shuts off with a click and Garak pulls on a robe. Fully covered, he squints at his reflection. His hair is behaving in an unruly fashion, refusing his every attempt to smooth it back. Applying hair oil only seems to encourage it to curl in unexpected ways. Worse, the facial hair is now a visible, itchy shadow across his cheeks and neck. Garak inspects a device he suspects might be depilator and sighs. He really should’ve pumped Bashir for information about hair removal before dismissing him.

There’s a droning, reptilian chirp coming from the living area, audible even through the refresher door. Odd—regnars aren’t particularly vocal creatures. Garak tilts his head and listens. It isn’t a squeal of distress. A mating call, perhaps? He goes to investigate, sneaking across the quarters so as not to startle the creature. When Garak comes into view of the terrarium, the regnar scurries to the top of a branch and looks at him. He chirps again.

Garak smiles and murmurs in Kardasi, “I see. You’re feeling lonely, is that it?”

The regnar lifts his head and raises one front foot.

“I suppose I’ll take pity on you,” Garak says, prying open the terrarium lid and reaching inside. The regnar climbs into his open palm without hesitation and sits calmly as Garak carries him over to the viewport. “What do you think?” he asks as he strokes the regnar’s head. “Shall I take you back with me to Cardassia?”

The regnar nestles beneath Garak’s cuff, tail curling around his wrist. Enjoying his artificially raised body temperature, it seems.

_“I think he likes you,” a man says, tapping the metal cage. “I have it on authority that regnars make excellent pets. What do you think, Serot? Do you want to hold him?”_

Garak holds his breath. The man’s voice is familiar, and the look in his eyes as he smiles only slightly, as he opens the cage and reaches inside—it reminds Garak of—

It reminds him of—

The door chimes, startling the regnar. He scrambles up Garak’s arm, disappearing along with the scrap of memory. Garak inhales deeply and tries to focus on the man’s face, tries to chase down the memory and grab hold of it, but it’s out of his reach. Gone. How does anyone concentrate on this damned station with these constant interruptions?

The door chimes again, twice in a row.

“Computer, who is at the door?”

“Counselor Kestra Troi.”

The Betazoid. Of all the Starfleet officers, she’s the one he’s been the least enthused about meeting. What could she possibly want? Garak deposits the regnar back in its tank and tugs at his robe, pulling it tight. He isn’t even dressed properly. He’s naked, utterly bereft of defenses, in no condition to face an empath.

_And she can likely sense your hesitation through the wall._

Steeling himself with another long intake of breath, Garak turns to the door. “Come in.”

Garak stays by the terrarium, observing her entrance. She doesn’t disappoint. The woman wears that Starfleet rag like it’s a high-end evening gown of beaded jevonite, and walks with a heel-toe confidence, the sway of her hips deliberately sultry. Troi comes to a stop at the center of the room, one hand poised on her hip, and looks at him. If Garak hadn’t known before that she had Betazoid blood, those bottomless black eyes would give her away.

“Hello, Mister Garak,” she says, red lips curving into a smile. “I’m Kestra, the station’s counselor.”

This time, Garak doesn’t bother correcting the honorific; he wears it like a shield. “A pleasure to meet you. I do apologize for my state of undress—you’ve caught me at a bad time.”

“Oh, I won’t keep you long. I just wanted to introduce myself.” She pauses, studying him, and he’s aware that she’s silently comparing him to his counterpart. It’s an assessment that is quickly wearing on his nerves. “How are you holding up?” she asks.

“Very well, thank you. Rest assured, Counselor, I won’t be causing any more trouble for the station.”

“I’m glad to hear it, but I wasn’t worried about that. I’m more interested in how you’re feeling. What you're going through, it's a radical adjustment, even for someone in your line of work.”

Garak smiles. “Tailoring?”

“Spycraft,” she says, smiling back.

The part of him that’s built for skulking in shadows has formulated denials at ready. That is the second time today someone has dared to utter the word _spy_ in his presence with utter conviction. Even within the confines of the Assembly building, no one spoke so brazenly about the Obsidian Order. “As I told Doctor Bashir,” Garak says, “I’m quite adaptable. Perhaps he’s the one you should be counseling.”

“We’ve already talked, actually. I can’t go into too much detail, but it’s obvious to even someone untrained in psychology that he’s going through the first stages of the grieving process. Julian was about to start a new phase of his life, and now for reasons beyond anyone’s control, that’s over. It’ll be a long adjustment period.”

“I would hope Starfleet trains its officers to handle unexpected casualties.”

“It does, but that doesn’t mean it becomes easy. And this isn’t the same, is it? It’s more similar to a person suffering amnesia after a traumatic brain injury. You have to understand, Garak. Every time Julian looks at you, all he sees is the man who was supposed to become his husband.”

Well, that’s one problem he can remedy easily enough. “That sounds more like his problem than mine.”

Troi lifts her brows. “You’re angry. At him. Why?”

“I’m afraid you’re mistaken. Perhaps you’re misreading my emotions—a few crossed neurons—when in fact what I’m feeling is impatience over this meandering conversation. Under normal circumstances, I’d be more than happy to indulge in such a thing,” Garak says, moving to herd her out, “but I should be going to bed.”

“Well, I did promise to keep it quick,” Troi says, as if her abrupt departure were her idea. She pauses as she reaches the door. “If you ever want to talk, my office is on the Promenade.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

As the doors close behind her, putting a physical barrier between them, Garak begins to relax. That could’ve gone much worse. He checks the time and hurries over to the replicator. Enough delaying. He needs to get moving.

The cold rokassa juice that shimmers into existence is a poor substitute for the fresh-squeezed variety, but it manages to soothe his nerves despite its slightly off taste. As he sips, he taps at the replicator’s menu, scanning through lists of items.

A few configurations later, a gray linen bag materializes in a swirl of energy, exactly as specified. He unfurls it with a sweep through the air and carries it into the bedroom. Throwing open the dresser drawers and closet, he shoves fistfuls of clothes into the bag, heedless of wrinkles. He’ll worry about that later. Once it’s half filled, Garak retrieves the charged Bajoran phaser from its hiding spot and tosses it in. It disappears beneath another layer of clothing.

He’s sifting through his counterpart’s sizable wardrobe when he notices a pair of fabric rolls tucked in the back of the closet. He unwinds the first and feels himself smile. Cardassian textiles. Abandoned and forgotten. These will just have to come with him, then. Garak lifts the second roll and catches sight of a metal lockbox concealed in the shadows behind it. There’s no doubt in his mind that it’s been deliberately hidden. Garak runs his fingers across its smooth surface, searching for the latch.

The box emits an electronic beep and Garak leaps back, arms up, for a split second expecting a faceful of nitrilin explosive. Then the lid snaps open, revealing not a live grenade, but a small remote.

Garak sighs.

The remote fits neatly in his palm. It’s fashioned from soft plastic, its buttons and dial pilfered from a hodgepodge of sources. He cracks it open with a thumb, exposing electronic innards stolen from a Bajoran PADD and hastily soldered. The dial is turned to ‘4.’ No indication what that means, or what it does. Once he’s sure it isn’t a detonator of some sort, Garak steps out of the closet and turns about the bedroom, remote in hand, ready to see what springs to life. He presses the center button.

The surge of pleasure is immediate—he hears his breath catch, sees the remote tumble from his fingers, clutches the dresser to keep aloft. It flows over him in a warm, tingling wave, spreading to his limbs and making his knees buckle from under him. His body goes hot, as if strummed by the most skilled lover, and he shivers beneath it until, at last, it dissipates, leaving behind only languid aftershocks.

It takes half a minute for his mind to start working again. With shaking hands, Garak picks up the remote and admires the handiwork. “Oh, you clever thing,” he says. “Aren’t you full of surprises?”

Perhaps he’ll reconsider Timot’s execution. The cranial implant had been his invention, after all.

He’s tempted to press the button again, and he can’t help but notice with fascination that the dial goes up to eight, but he’s already broken into a sweat, making the robe cling to him uncomfortably. He adds the remote to the bag. With a little modification, the device might prove useful.

His packing done, Garak zips the bag and finishes dressing.

Ten minutes later, the comm chirps. “Odo to Garak.”

“Garak here.”

“Commander Sisko has approved your transfer request. Your new quarters are located on level seventeen, chamber one-eleven.”

“Thank you, Constable. And the other matter?”

“The commander is still discussing the issue of your name with the Bajoran High Magistrate. Once he approves the change, it should only be a matter of signing some paperwork to transfer Mister Pela’s assets to you.”

“That’s most reassuring. I appreciate it, Constable.”

He’s just cut the communication when he hears the front door open. Bashir—awkwardly tiptoeing, by the sound of it. His uniform makes a loud swish as the fabric rubs together.

Garak lowers the bag to the floor, his plan for an inconspicuous exit ruined. It’s the least he deserves for dawdling like a rank amateur. A moment later, Bashir peeks through the bedroom’s doorway. He looks at the empty bed and frowns. “Garak?” he whispers.

“Yes, Doctor?”

Bashir stumbles backward with an undignified yelp. Yes, the man is most certainly _not_ a Section 31 agent. Bashir lets out a breath, one hand on his no doubt pounding heart. “Garak,” he says. “You’re awake.”

“As are you.”

“Couldn’t sleep. I tried, but it was no use. This whole situation has me turned upside down.” Bashir reaches for a shelf beside the bed and plucks up a plush, faux-furred toy that looks like it’s seen better days. He cradles the ratty thing in his arms and strokes its head. “I tried contacting Doctor Parmak on Cardassia, but I haven’t heard a word back from him. You don’t think he’s avoiding me, do you? Never mind, that’s preposterous. He said he’d be willing to help if we ever needed it.”

“He must be a busy man,” Garak reasons. “I’m sure he’ll contact you once he has the opportunity.” _Although I highly doubt it._

“You’re probably right.” Setting the toy aside, Bashir stifles a yawn with his fist. “I have a habit of getting ahead of myself. I need to figure out what went wrong. I thought I was about to go crazy, but then Quark brought in this Jem’Hadar baby he found on . . .” The doctor trails off. His eyes have come to rest on Garak’s duffle bag. His face falls. “Garak? You’re not leaving, are you?”

“I’ll be out of your way presently. If you don’t mind, I’d like to take these textiles with me.”

“No! I mean, you can have them, but stay, please. If you think you’re imposing, you’re not. I _want_ you here.”

Garak can’t help but feel a flicker of sympathy for the man; Bashir didn’t ask for this, did nothing to deserve it. Ultimately, however, he’ll have to accept the changing circumstances. By his age, Garak had long learned the value of letting go. Bashir will come to realize soon enough that there’s no point clinging to a life that’s already gone. “Please don’t take it personally, Doctor. You seem to be a nice, well-mannered man.”

“A nice, well-mannered man,” Bashir repeats.

“In light of present circumstances, I could use some time to myself. To reflect.”

Bashir’s lips turn down. “I was afraid of that.”

Taking that as his cue, Garak hefts the bag over his shoulder and tucks the two fabric rolls beneath his arm. He’s aware of Bashir following him to the door and silently hopes the man won’t make a scene or, worse, try to physically bar him from leaving.

“You don’t have to go,” Bashir continues more frantically. He reaches for Garak’s arm but stops short to only grab air. “We can postpone the wedding,” he says. “I can sleep on the couch. I’ll take the evening shifts so you barely have to see me. I swear I’ll stay out of your way until we figure this out. _Please_ , Garak, don’t do this to me.”

Garak looks at him. Bashir stares back, his eyes begging like a man aware he’s about to lose everything. It’s an expression Garak knows well. He’s seen it reflected in the eyes of men, women, and children across every stratum of Cardassian society. Begging him to keep something—a secret, a limb, a life. The last time, it had been Pythas. _Ah, and if Pythas couldn’t convince me to stay, what chance do you have?_

“You deserve better than to live a lie, Doctor,” Garak says. It’s the same honey-sweet tone of the interrogation chamber, and the best advice he can provide. Inclining his head, Garak leaves.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings for** body dysphoria.

His new quarters smell of stale ionized air, but there’s not a hint of another person’s scent. Garak glances around the small room. The furnishings are the bland Federation default. Not quite the fresh start he had in mind, but it’ll have to suffice.

He sets the climate to within Cardassian norms and reinforces the door and computer terminal with secondary security protocols. A sweep for monitoring devices turns up nothing. Satisfied, Garak unpacks, refolding clothes and tucking the Bajoran pistol and remote into the bedside table. He wants nothing more than to crawl into the narrow bed with its hard, enticing mattress, but that’ll have to wait a little longer. There are still matters more important than sleep.

Besides entangling him with a human, Garak’s counterpart has left him in less-than-optimal physical condition. It’s been years since he’s had to subsist entirely on replicator food, and as Garak tries to settle on a dinner that won’t further ravage his waistline, he finds he can’t stomach the familiar Cardassian entrees. Each offering is an unsavory shadow of his memories. Tossing the fourth inedible meal back into the replicator port, he orders an Andorian pickled salad. His taste buds, while far from satisfied, don’t know better.

As Garak eats, he makes discrete inquiries into the whereabouts of his contacts, filtering his requests through a proxy on Bajor. Many of his old associates must be dead or burnt by now. Yth’vero couldn’t have lasted another six months, much less twelve years. Some will have fallen from grace following the withdrawal, while others will have moved on or retired. But someone, somewhere, will still be alive and of use to him. Garak probes delicately, sends his messages, and closes the connection.

Now to wait.

He calls the lights and retires to bed.

Sleep comes immediately, but it doesn’t last. He wakes an hour later with the sheets tangled around his legs and his skin sticky with sweat. Garak pats himself down, verifying that he’s still in this damnable body. Worse, he’s half-everted.

Garak snorts and rolls his eyes to the ceiling. What about this situation could possibly be arousing?

With the lights out, in the partial darkness silhouetted blue from the headboard’s glowing control panel, it’s almost as if this isn’t happening.

Garak lets his fingers skim over the fabric of his nightclothes. The sensation of silk over skin, the tingle of pressure as he rubs his thigh, is not so different. If he pretends, it’s exactly the same. As he slides his right hand beneath his waistband, his left hand drifts upward to his neckridge. His fingers only find smooth, damp skin. He jerks his hand away, cringing. It takes several breaths to bring it back.

 _This is you, Elim._  

Despite the difference in texture, the steady up and down motion of his fingers over his neck has the same invigorating effect.

The hand that moves across his scales is like a stranger’s. It’s foreign, alien. It could easily belong to a Bajoran. Or a human.

Like Bashir.

Oh, no, he _won’t_ be indulging in that thought. He isn’t in the habit of repeating his mistakes, regardless of how tempting. Garak musters his self-control and tugs the blanket to his chin.

Opposite the bed hangs a painting of an ocean. Green and gray waves roll over a planet he doesn’t recognize. Perhaps it doesn’t even exist. Garak counts his own breaths until he can almost hear the waves crashing on top of him.

When he wakes the next morning, it’s with an unaccustomed slowness. Every muscle is tight, as if his body is reluctant to transition into moving again. And he’s fairly certain he’s pulled something in his lower back by simply sitting up. Garak wants to dismiss it as simple exhaustion, or even stress, but he knows better. It’s age.

Perhaps a shower will do him some good. But when he steps into the cramped refresher, he finds only a standard water shower, sans sonic add-on. Garak weighs his options. He could comm Odo and request another transfer, this time to fully-equipped quarters, no doubt making a nuisance of himself in the process. Casting the shower a baleful glare, Garak retreats.

After a light breakfast, he checks the terminal for messages. There’s only one, and it’s from Commander Sisko. Informing him that the transfer of assets has been approved. Constable Odo will be resetting Pela’s security codes and sending them Garak’s way as soon as he comes on duty.

Garak checks the time. Well, it’s early yet.

Patience is what distinguishes the exemplary agents from the good, and he’s always been a patient man.

Garak hurries to dress and leaves his quarters. At this hour, the station is peaceful, with only a handful of residents milling about the corridors. This time, their glances are lingering and curious as he passes. When he arrives at the infirmary, the nurses are just setting up for the day. They work quietly, oblivious to his presence.

“Soraya neryshu,” Garak greets from the doorway.

They stop in place and stare at him.

Garak smiles. Confronting a gaggle of nurses after forcing a blade into their doctor’s abdomen is hardly the most awkward situation he’s encountered, but it makes the ranking. A blonde Bajoran woman looks him up and down. “Doctor Bashir won’t be in until this afternoon,” she says, turning back to her tray of instruments.

He’s well aware. “I wouldn’t dream of disturbing the doctor’s convalescence. I had only a few concerns . . .”

“How can we help?” another Bajoran asks, bypassing her colleague to stand before him.

“Unless it’s an emergency,” the first nurse interrupts, “you’ll have to make an appointment.”

“Don’t mind her—” The second nurse takes Garak’s arm. “Jabara woke up with the wrong bedside manner this morning. I’m Lucia. What was your name again?”

“Garak, my dear.”

“Doctor Bashir only said it fifty times,” Jabara mutters, “while he was half-conscious on the operating table.”

Lucia’s smile is tight and apologetic as she leads him into a private exam room. Under normal circumstances, Garak would wait out even the gravest of injuries before allowing a Bajoran to tend to him. But while he’s stuck on a Federation-run station and ostensibly barred from communicating with Cardassia, he may as well make some adjustments. Best to be open-minded about such things.

Luckily, Doctor Bashir doesn’t seem to employ incompetents, and the nurse immediately sets to work on tending his ailment, nodding reassurances as she prepares a scanning device. “Presbyopia,” she explains. “Very common in people your age.”

Garak inwardly cringes. Only two days ago, Timot had pronounced him as healthy as a Rigellian ox, dismissing Tain’s concerns about the implants with his usual smile. “He’s young,” he’d said. “He’ll heal right up.”

Now it’s _people your age._

“Sorry,” Lucia says, lowering her scanning wand. “That was rude of me, wasn’t it. I just thought—don’t Cardassians value getting older?”

“You’re very correct. Advanced age is a sign of power and dignity. But only when it’s earned, I’m afraid.”

“Oh. Well, if it’s any consolation, I’m sure Doctor Bashir can find a way to get your memories back. He did it once before. Hold still, please.”

The nurse shines a bright light into his eyes. Within a minute, the procedure is over and she’s pushing a medical journal into his hands. The lettering is crisp, without a hint of nausea-inducing blur. Never has Bajoran script looked so good.

The nurse is equally professional in fielding his other, less pleasant questions. She listens without the hint of a smirk, as if she’s walked many a full-grown man through the rudiments of hygiene. He recalls that the Bajoran servants required a more mild soap for water showers—there were constant complaints about how the Cardassian variety chafed their thin hides—and Lucia’s suggestions seem to corroborate that. She recommends several vegetable-based cleansing and styling products and records the replicator specifications on a PADD.

When they come to the subject of permanent facial hair removal, Lucia makes a valiant attempt to talk him out of it, claiming that she finds the beard fetching. “I bet it’ll grow on Doctor Bashir, too,” she says with a playful smile. But Garak is resolute, and at last she acquiesces, casting his face a rueful look as she prepares her instruments.

The coarse hair disappears in puffs of putrid smoke, leaving behind only smooth skin. It’s a small improvement, but he feels appreciatively cleaner, lighter. More himself. Now if only he could do away with the sweating, he might be able to tolerate this body. That will have to wait. Competent as Bashir’s staff may be, Garak isn’t about to allow them to tamper with his subdermal implants.

Genuinely gratified, Garak thanks Nurse Lucia for her help. “Don’t mention it,” she says, squeezing his arm as she walks him out. “And if you change your mind about the facial hair, just come right back. I’d pay good money to see you in a mustache.”

He’s making his way to the infirmary’s exit when Jabara intercepts him. “Mister Garak. A word.”

“Of course,” Garak says. He can already sense where this conversation is going, but he allows Jabara to corral him against a biobed, out of earshot from the other nurses.

“I’ll get to the point. Doctor Bashir might’ve forgiven you for what you did to him, but as far as I’m concerned you have a long way to go before you can make it right. And if you think about hurting him again—”

“There will be ‘hell to pay’?”

“No, I was going to say that you’d wish you were never born.”

“Your message is well received. I assure you, Doctor Bashir has nothing to fear from me. I have no interest in continuing to make his acquaintance.”

Jabara frowns, evidently taken aback. “You . . . don’t? Why not?”

The reasons are too vast to enumerate, so he settles for just one. “Because he and I have nothing in common,” Garak says, stepping past her, “besides a man who no longer exists.”

When he arrives back to his quarters, Garak is pleased to find that Odo has been kind enough to provide him with the new access codes to the shop. This time he approaches the storefront with a regnar’s stealth, giving no one the chance to accost him as he enters the codes. Once inside, Garak raises the lights to thirty percent and looks around. Alone, without Bashir’s stifling presence, he can fully explore this place that his counterpart once made his own.

The ledgers come first. Although he has an idea of the financial predicament Pela left him, the spreadsheets confirm it. Garak sighs at the disarray and, after catching the third error in the total column, sets the whole mess aside for an audit. It’s not entirely his counterpart’s fault; it isn’t as if Garak could have passed along his Cardassian enthusiasm for recordkeeping.

At least Pela was far better about keeping detailed notes on his customers and stock. As Garak sets to taking a physical inventory, he notices people stopping to peer in through the windows. Thankfully, no one is rude enough to disturb him. Every now and then, he pauses to survey Pela’s stitch work, to admire the artistry and care that went into every garment. It sends an odd pang through him.

By midday, his clothes are clinging to him. The more he tries to press on, the more distracting it becomes, leaving him no choice but to take a break. Back at his quarters, Garak replicates the hygiene products Lucia suggested and forces himself to strip, to stand in the cramped shower stall, and turn on the tap. Every fiber of him wants to get it over with, so he ignores the water spraying him in the face and keeps his eyes closed, gritting his teeth through the slick, uncanny sensation of the soap sliding over his skin. A few more seconds, and he’ll be done.

Then, a momentary lapse—force of habit—

He opens his eyes and looks down.

The panic is a lancing pain through his chest. Garak braces his hands on the shower wall and struggles for air. Everything is spinning. Through the roar of the shower, he can hear his own gasping, choking breaths. Years of training evaporate as his world collapses and the panic takes over. He can’t _breathe_.

If he dies a Bajoran, naked on the floor of this shower, he’ll never forgive himself.

He isn’t sure how he gets out, but when Garak snaps back into his body, he’s sitting on the refresher’s cold tiled floor, shivering, a towel splayed over his legs. The panic has faded to a dull ache, the kind he knows from experience will follow him the rest of the day.

Garak reaches over and shuts off the shower tap.

Eventually, when he’s sure his legs can support him, Garak dries off with haphazard swipes of the towel and dresses. Lunch is out of the question. What he needs is to get back to work. But he can’t very well leave looking like a disaster. He controls his breathing and faces the mirror.

This is going to take some time.

With generous amounts of persistence and hair product, Garak manages to cajole his hair into falling straight. It isn’t perfect—the color, of course, is utterly wrong—but the overall effect is soothing. He takes extra care in applying finishing touches, following Lucia’s advice to the letter, including the dabbing of a mild cologne to his throat and the inside of his wrists.

Satisfied, Garak checks his messages, sends off another round of surreptitious inquiries, and returns to the shop.

Sewing has always calmed his nerves, and he can feel the anxiety draining from him the moment he steps through the doors, as if his proximity to fabric and thread is enough. He sifts through his counterpart’s commissions, searching for projects within his skill level. It’s been at least a year since he last held a sewing wand. Perhaps he should start with something small, like mending a torn hemline.

There’s a tap of fingernails on the glass storefront. Garak glances over his shoulder.

Doctor Bashir’s lanky figure stands at the door, waving.

What could the man possibly want? It doesn't matter; he isn’t in any state to accept visitors, much less _that_ one. Garak dips his head in polite acknowledgment and wiggles his fingers in farewell. _Yes, Doctor, I see you. Now off you go!_

The tapping grows louder the instant Garak turns back to the workbench. Bashir’s waving has become a full body movement. He points to the door as if Garak hasn’t gotten the hint. Suppressing a sigh, Garak crosses the shop and opens the door.

Bashir smiles tentatively. “Hello, Garak. Mind if I come in?” Without waiting for an answer, he shimmies past Garak and into the shop. “You waste no time getting back to work, do you?”

“I do like to keep active.”

Bashir drifts between the clothing racks and adjusts the sash on a mannequin, leaving it lopsided before wandering away to spread his invasive scent throughout the shop. “I heard you stopped by the infirmary this morning,” he says.

Bashir is clearly fishing for information. Garak rights the sash and cinches it tightly. “You heard correctly,” he says.

Undeterred, Bashir swings around until he’s invading Garak’s personal space. Garak holds his ground, projecting a posture of unruffled ease as the human looks him over. “I thought I’d better check on you,” Bashir says, his eyes lingering on his hair, “just to be sure you’re not under the weather.”

“How thoughtful of you, Doctor. As you can see, I’m doing quite well.”

“You don’t look well.” His brows knit together with concern. “Something’s upset you.”

Oh, Garak _hates_ that. Even through layers of disassembling and masks, this man reads him as if every passage is bookmarked and underlined. He was wrong to identify the empath as the threat.

Bashir leans in, closing the distance between them, and Garak is afraid he might actually try to embrace him. If he thinks Garak will tolerate his pity, then he’s woefully mistaken. But Bashir’s eyes only flutter shut. Then, to Garak’s horror, he _sniffs him._

He looks Garak straight in the eye, the smug tilt of his smile making it clear that he knows exactly what he just did. It’s a challenge.

This relationship is getting out of hand.

Garak pretends to find interest in his workbench. “If there’s nothing I can do for you, Doctor, I really am rather busy.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Bashir appears beside him, bouncing on his heels with that eager-to-please hopefulness. “I have the rest of the day off, and I used to help Serot around the shop all the time.”

“I’m afraid it’d be a wasted effort,” Garak says as he stretches the sleeves of a half-finished cotton blouse. “Maintaining my counterpart’s shop may be a lost cause. I know next to nothing about tailoring.”

Bashir frowns at him.

“Did I say something confusing, Doctor?”

“Do you expect me to believe that?”

“Excuse me?”

“‘Next to nothing about tailoring’? Garak, you’ve been sewing since you were a child. Unless you’ve lost more than just Serot’s memories, which I highly doubt, then this,” he nods to the workbench, “should be right up your alley.”

That stops Garak short. “What makes you think that?” he says.

“Serot told us all about you. Your childhood, how you joined the Order—”

“ _Us?”_

“That’s right. After Serot’s encounter with Ro Laren, Gallitep transferred him back here. He was badly shaken, so I suggested he start seeing Counselor Troi. I only sat in on the first meeting, but it was enough to . . .”

The rest of the words fall away into indistinct muttering as Garak clenches the blouse between his fists. Betrayed by his own creation. _Again_. It wasn’t enough that he had to get him exiled, but he was also baring his soul to the Betazoid? How many of Garak’s secrets did he confess without thought to the consequences? It may be already too late to control the damage that’s been done.

That doesn’t mean he can’t try.

When Bashir finishes speaking, Garak favors him with an insinuating smile. “And you believed everything he said?”

Bashir hesitates. “Well, not _everything._ I mean, he blurred the truth here and there, and he kept a few secrets, but there’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Of course,” Garak agrees, flipping through patterns on the bench’s overhead scanner. _For all you know, Doctor, I programmed him to spoon feed you one lie after another to suit my own purposes._

“There _isn’t._ We’re all allowed our secrets. Listen here, Garak, you can’t very well cast aspersions on Serot’s honesty. He was . . .” Bashir pauses, and even though Garak’s no longer looking at him, he can hear the pain in his voice. “He’s one of the most honest men I’ve met. Besides, Counselor Troi was right there. I don’t think even a trained Obsidian Order agent could lie to a Betazoid.”

“ _Half_ Betazoid,” Garak corrects. “And I didn’t accuse him of lying, Doctor. A blurring of the truth here and there, as you said.”

“But she’s an _empath.”_

“Oh, I’m sure Counselor Troi is an expert in her field. But the Obsidian Order thoroughly trains its agents in resisting all varieties of mental intrusion.” Garak pauses for effect. “Or so I hear.”

Bashir picks up on his little joke and laughs. “Because you couldn’t _possibly_ have had anything to do with that disreputable organization, hmm?” He takes a step closer, one hand on his hip. “And you couldn’t sew a button if your life depended on it?”

For that instant, Garak can see how his counterpart could be thoroughly disarmed by this man. “Perhaps I misspoke,” Garak says, clutching to the shards of his shattered lie and hating himself for it. He glances around the shop ruefully. “My skills are nothing compared to this.”

Bashir’s hand grazes the fabric of Garak’s sleeve. “I loved to watch him work,” he murmurs. “I suppose I didn’t appreciate how good he was. Frankly, I was never interested in fashion. I knew he had loyal customers, but he was so modest. He was always trying to get better. I think you’d be proud of him. Serot had twelve years to get good, Garak. If you give it time—”

The thought is a depressing one. No, he doesn’t belong on this freezing station, and he’s _not_ a tailor. “Time, Doctor, is not something of which I have an abundance.”

Bashir nods. “Maybe you don’t have twelve years to hone your sewing needle, but—” He gives Garak an odd, searching look. “If you came to the infirmary with me, I could give you a full brain scan and test your memory. He might be—the abilities might still be there. We might be able to, to . . .”

Garak twists to narrow a glare at him. Bashir stutters to a stop.

“ _My_ , Doctor,” Garak says, picking up a more amiable smile, “how _devious_ of you! Trying to encourage me to investigate the state of my memory, for my own good?” He tuts. “Surely you’d never take advantage of my compliance to, say, revive your lover and erase me in the process? I’m impressed. I almost believed you were incapable of this type of ploy.”

“Garak, no, I didn’t mean it that way. I would never try to—”

“Now, now, Doctor Bashir, there’s no need to deny it. A clumsy first attempt at subterfuge, but I won’t hold it against you. If I were in your position, I’d want to eliminate me, too.”

Bashir’s eyes widen. “I don’t! That’s not it at all, Garak! I was only suggesting—you’re the prime personality. You were, what, thirty-five, forty years old when you went under?” He looks to him for confirmation, but Garak remains silent. He rambles on. “Even if we were to retrieve Serot’s memories, he wouldn’t be able to supplant you.”

“But if he did, you wouldn’t be devastated.”

Bashir presses his lips together and closes his eyes.

“I thought so,” Garak says.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what, Doctor?”

“For—” Bashir runs his fingers through his hair and releases a shaking breath. “Do me a favor and forget I said anything. It was a stupid idea. Are you cross with me?”

“Do I seem angry?”

Bashir stares into his eyes. This time, Garak seems to succeed in fooling him. “No, I suppose not. Will I see you later?”

“I’m not likely to go anywhere, now am I?”

 _You saw to_ that _yourself._

Bashir opens his mouth, reconsiders whatever he was about to say. He nods stiffly and beats a hasty retreat. If Garak had known that was what it took to get rid of him, he would’ve led with the accusation.

Garak locks the door and returns to the workbench and his counterpart’s sketches. “I’d be careful if I were you, Doctor,” he says, bringing a sheet of fabric across the surface and raising his laser cutter, “I’ve been eliminating more challenging targets since you were crawling.”


	7. Chapter 7

It’s fitting that the first person to reply to Garak’s inquiries had been expelled from Prime, deemed an enemy of the Cardassian Union, and only recently permitted to return home.

The years have not been kind to Parmak. He has the weathered look of a man battered beyond his means, tempered by a journey that came close to killing him. That Bashir would put his faith in such a broken man only further demonstrates his naïveté in Garak’s mind.

Parmak sits stiffly in his medic’s uniform, the insignia of the northern continent on his coat. He inclines his head with palpable wariness at Garak’s greeting. Despite everything hanging between them, it’s _good_ to see a Cardassian face.

Garak affects an air of mock offense. “I admit, Doctor, I was expecting a warmer response. It’s been such a _long_ time since we’ve spoken, hasn't it?”

Parmak narrows his eyes. Garak recognizes the look. He's weighing his response, searching for tricks. Trying to guess at the right answer. Eventually, Parmak settles for remaining quiet. That tells Garak far more than any words possibly could.

“It’s almost as if you were expecting me,” Garak adds.

“I didn’t know for sure, but I had a feeling.”

“Please don’t insult my intelligence. If you had any inkling that I’d contact you, then you know precisely why I’m calling.”

Parmak examines his hands folded in his lap, a man guilty. “I didn’t know it was you,” he whispers.

“Then you only intended to act against some unknown agent of the Order," Garak says. "That only worsens the scope of your crime. I’m curious, Doctor, if it was revenge you wanted, why bother with this drawn-out treatment of yours? Why not instruct Bashir to inject me with a fast-acting poison? His lack of knowledge on Cardassian physiology was why he came to you, after all. By the time he realized his error, it would’ve been too late.”

“I’m not a murderer," Parmak says through gritted teeth. _  
_

“Yes, I suppose your intention was more along the lines of torture. Give the spy a taste of his own medicine, is that it?”

“If Doctor Bashir had been honest with me from the start, if he’d told me he had a relationship with his patient—”

“You knew the dezothomide would have a destabilizing effect on my psyche.”

Parmak closes his eyes with a wince. “Once we began the treatment, stopping it abruptly would’ve rendered you permanently delusional.”

“Which is what you fully intended to advise Bashir to do,” Garak finishes. Naturally Bashir would’ve tried everything in his power to repair the damage, but with his limited knowledge, he’d invariably be left with few options. He’d have no choice but to lock up Garak’s counterpart, or send him back to Cardassia, where he would be quietly euthanized. It's a disquieting thought, how close he came.

“I wanted to look you in the eye first,” Parmak says. “I never had anything against you, Garak. It wasn’t personal. What I did—”

“Who directed your interrogation, Doctor?”

Parmak hesitates, looking at him sidelong with that same guarded deliberation. Garak is about to repeat the question when Parmak gathers his courage and says, “A man named Entek.”

“Ah.” Well, that explains it. Even the most patriotic Cardassian would hold a grudge against the Order after being locked in a room with that man. Garak had always liked Corbin Entek; he was, by far, one of their best operatives. Still, he wants to apologize for his colleague’s no doubt overzealous behavior. “I promise you, Doctor, if it had been me on the other side of the table, I would’ve been far more gentle.”

“That’s very reassuring. Thank you, Garak.”

“You're most welcome. I only have one more question. Is it still possible to safely retrieve my counterpart’s memories?”

“Not with the dezothomide. If you tried it now, it would have no effect on you. But if you were to come back to Cardassia and get the right dosage of desegranine, that should do the trick.”

“And the implanted memories?”

“They’re gone. In a way, I did you a favor.”

Garak half smiles. “You’ll excuse me if I don’t thank you for it.”

Parmak concedes with a dip of his head, more relaxed now. “If I may ask, how are you handling the neUt’kura?”

Garak feels his smile take a bitter edge. It’s a medical term, one he’s heard whispered in the alcoves of the Order, and the prime reason why agents rarely adopt the guise of other species without suppressing their identities. Psychopathology. Even with training, the ordered Cardassian mind is poorly equipped to handle it. Much like the claustrophobia, it’s difficult to predict, and that’s what makes it all the worse. “What would be your medical advice,” Garak says, “for someone with such an ailment?”

“Assuming the proper diagnosis, I’d prescribe a low dosage of lektrozil, taken every morning. The first two weeks might be difficult, but if the patient sticks with it, it should markedly decrease the symptoms. Any physician should be able to replicate the drug.”

“I do hope you’ve been honest with me, Doctor. For your sake.”

It’s an idle threat. There’s little Garak can do from five light years away. Tethered to this miserable station, he may as well be in another quadrant. But Parmak seems to take it seriously. “Applied Sciences has made several breakthroughs since you've been gone,” he says. “The lektrozil will work.” For the first time, Parmak looks straight into the monitor. “Please, Garak, don’t tell Doctor Bashir about Pela. I didn’t know.”

It would be easy to offer reassurances, but Garak simply nods and closes the connection without another word.

Parmak is lucky Garak isn’t already plotting a dozen different ways to ruin his life. Years ago, he would’ve destroyed the doctor out of habit alone: reflex for having dared cross him and the Order. But there’s already too much to do, and Parmak _did_ change his mind. He ensured that Garak would receive the final dosage that would bring about his activation. Isn't that deserving of some mercy?

And, really, he has to respect Parmak's methods, his willingness to exact revenge, even if he did ultimately lose his nerve. A discarding of personal ethics for a higher goal. He never knew the good doctor was such a romantic at heart.

It’s tempting to draw on Parmak as a resource—he has precious few of them right now—but Garak knows better. Parmak is a burnt bridge, made unreliable the second Entek dragged him into the interrogation chamber. He'll have to find someone else.

He stares at the blank screen, deliberating a moment before rising to his feet. He makes his way to the replicator and opens its command-line interface. Bashir’s changed his security codes since Garak last accessed his profile, but it’s little more than an inconvenience. Within minutes, the lektrozil materializes, followed by a hypospray. Garak erases the evidence from the replicator logs and holds one of the lektrozil canisters to the light.

This could be a great relief for him. Not a cure, but a balm. Garak remembers the last panic attack and shudders. No more undignified unravelings. He could undress, shower, and look upon himself without disgust. Perhaps he’d even move beyond grudging tolerance and actually be comfortable with this form.

Garak turns the canister over in his hand. The gas inside swirls like a pink cloud.

Then again, this could be dangerous. Being able to touch his own skin without retching might be beneficial in the short term, but what if he comes to enjoy this body? What if he came to _prefer_ it?

He may as well give up, then. Stop trying to find his way back to Cardassia. Surrender everything, all that he is.

Garak throws the lektrozil back in the replicator and dematerializes the entire lot. He’d sooner swallow promazine and leave his dust scattered behind for the Federation to sweep up.

With his resolve thus renewed, Garak spends much of the evening patched into his Bajoran proxy. He fires off more inquiries, tracking down different aliases and known whereabouts of colleagues and contacts. With that done, he tries to relax with a new repetitive epic. One of the benefits of being gone over a decade is the backlog of fresh literature. But within a few pages he’s too homesick to handle another word.

He downloads a compilation of Romulan poetry by an unfamiliar author and stretches out on the bed with it. For a time, he simply reads, flowing over stanzas. Then his eyes wander to the nightstand. He tosses the PADD aside.

As Garak sits at the edge of the bed, he runs his fingers along the remote's plastic casing.

What doldrum. He’d give anything for one intelligent conversation. Or a glass of kanar. He wants, down in his marrow, to be drinking right now. Does the lofty Federation even permit the use of intoxicants? He won’t suffer that damned synthehol they served on the ambassadorial convoy to Vulcan. Sighing, he returns the remote to its drawer and slams it shut.

The next morning, Garak stands at the workbench, examining yesterday’s work. He lines up the newly finished blouse alongside a similar garment from his counterpart’s rack and cups his face with one hand as his eyes flick back and forth between them. The difference is obvious. Painfully so.

_What did you expect, Elim? You weren’t made for creating things._

Bashir’s prim know-it-all voice interrupts, offering empty Federation platitudes: _Give it time! In twelve years, who knows where you’ll be? The sky’s the limit!_

Garak swats the blouse off the workbench and into the scrap bin.

There’s no telling how long he’ll be stranded here. If he can’t get this tailoring business to work, he’ll have to find other means to sustain himself. Perhaps he could offer his services as a trained assassin to Commander Sisko. Or join Starfleet. He is, after all, a Federation citizen. Garak scowls and reserves a few spiteful thoughts for Palandine. She deserves a significant portion of the blame for leaving him behind. If he sees her again, _when_ he sees her—

That’s enough sulking for now. What would Mila say if she saw him like this?

Garak unrolls more fabric from the bolt, sets out his tools and patterns, and begins another attempt, ready to stay there until he gets it right.

It’s still jarring, the sight of his pale, Bajoran fingers moving along ochroid silk, but he purges it from his mind, along with all thoughts of doubt. The station becomes background noise. His world is the hum of the workbench, the pressure of pedals, and the movement of his laser tool.

He checks the time. It’s been nearly four hours. Casting his latest attempt into the scrap bin, Garak shuts off the workbench and rubs at the tightness in his lower back. It’s tempting to take his meager lunch in the recesses of the shop, but the longer he remains secluded, the more he’ll draw curiosity. And he needs to keep his senses sharp. He’s ready.

This afternoon, when Garak emerges from the shop, he does so in plain sight. He can feel the eyes on him, following his path across the Promenade and scrutinizing his every move as he enters the Replimat. The moment he takes his place in line, people hurry up to him, descending with introductions and curious stares. Garak smiles patiently and explains over and over, _Yes, I’m the Cardassian. No, I don’t intend to go back to prison. No, I don’t remember you, madam. A pleasure to meet you. Yes, it was an unfortunate misunderstanding. He’s healing up nicely. No, I’m afraid it hasn’t worked out._ As they close in, Garak minds the nearest exits, plotting escape routes.

The boldest residents invite themselves to his table. When Garak joined the Order, he never expected to find himself surrounded by Bajorans and deflecting questions about his days as a spy. They utter his name in scare quotes, “Mister Garak,” as if it’s a private joke, as if he’s the Mogrund from a children’s story, defanged and serving for their amusement. They pat his arm and ask how many people he’s killed, unafraid of him or his answers.

They would be, of course, if he looked like a proper Cardassian. Garak wonders if becoming an object of revulsion and hatred would be easier. Perfectly delineated roles both sides know how to play. Their playful ribbing is so disconcerting, he has to cut the meal short to return to the safety of the shop.

Tired of the blouse, Garak flips through Pela’s patterns until he settles on a simple Bajoran-styled tunic. As he works, falling into a rhythm with the sewing wand, his thoughts drift to the Bajorans and their strange lunchtime conversation. Then he thinks of Tain.

Why did Tain leave him on the station for so long? Had Tain been in communication with his counterpart? It’s a distressing thought—Tain, interacting with Pela, passing on critical information. Tain must have his reasons for not sending someone straightaway. He _must_ have a continued use for him.

And what of Pythas? He’ll be Tain’s closest confidante, advising him on every matter of the Union’s security.

If he isn’t dead.

Garak closes his eyes. He misses him desperately.

His mind wanders, becoming cluttered with more questions. When Garak's concentration finally snaps back to the workbench, he realizes he hasn’t been paying attention. He’s lucky he hasn’t injured himself in his carelessness. Shameful, really. Garak sighs and, snipping the thread, lifts the tunic to inspect the damage.

There isn’t any. In fact, he’s managed to finish the sleeve beautifully. He turns it inside out and stares at the perfect stitching. Incredible.

Garak clutches the sleeve to his chest and glances around the shop, as if expecting to find his counterpart standing over his shoulder. Perhaps he should be unsettled, knowing another man’s instincts briefly took over his body, but all he feels is a surge of excitement. This is precisely what he’s wanted—a way to access what he’s lost without losing himself in the process.

“Let’s try this again,” Garak whispers to the air. “Shall we?”

Setting the completed sleeve aside, Garak gathers together more fabric. The raw knowledge is inside him, buried deep as a grave, but the muscle memory is quite literally at his fingertips.

He takes a series of meditative breaths and clears his mind. There will be no forcing it, but perhaps tapping into the memory will become easier with practice. He gives up all expectation and, relaxing his shoulders, sets the workbench into motion.

There’s no pattern. For a time, he just _sews_ , following the contours of the cloth and letting his whims guide him. He tries not to think about it. When the fabric becomes an unreadable map of stitches, he cuts off another square and begins again.

His thoughts drift again, and he half-closes his eyes, easing into it. He can feel it working, almost like a warm tugging at his fingers, nudging him where he needs to go. It’s thrilling, and Garak leans into it, surrendering his control to midbrain instinct—

There’s a loud thumping at the door.

Garak’s hands slip. “Us’cut!” he hisses, rushing to switch off the workbench, but it’s too late. The fabric has bunched in the middle.

Behind him, the rapping of a fingernail on glass: _tap tap tap._

 _Not again._ Garak throws the ruined garment away and musters his scattered patience. It’s only been two days. After the way Bashir had fled last time, Garak had expected him to keep his distance at least two more. He plasters together a polite smile and approaches the door. Behind it, Bashir drops his hand and perks up.

Mindful of how Bashir squirmed through last time, Garak opens the door a scant two inches and regards him through the crack. He looks haggard, his eyes red-rimmed and shadowed from lack of sleep. He’s been crying recently. Garak has the sudden _absurd_ impulse to throw open the door and gather the human into his arms. He wants to pet his hair as he holds him, wants to whisper reassurances in his ear and vow to never let anything hurt him again. Garak banishes the thought at once.

“Hello, Garak,” Bashir says. He shifts his weight, eyes darting to the cracked door, but manages a cheerful smile. “Hard at work, are we?”

Garak inclines his head. “I’m coming along.”

“Glad to hear it. I was hoping you’d do me the honor of having dinner with me tonight. We could talk all about it.”

“I don’t think so, Doctor.”

“Good, how about we meet at nineteen hundred—” Bashir frowns, his expression straddling confusion and outrage. “ _What?_ Why not?”

“It would be inappropriate.”

“But why? I don’t understand.”

Garak almost slams the door in his annoying, petulant face. Evidently there will be no getting rid of him without being agonizingly specific. “Putting aside your offensive breach in courtship etiquette,” Garak says, “we don’t know each other.”

“Oh,” Bashir says, and Garak realizes he’s managed to only encourage him. “Well, I'm sorry if I'm doing this all wrong from a Cardassian perspective, but that's entirely the point of dinner, Garak. To get to know each other. I know our relationship may not make sense to you yet, but we’re well matched for each other.” Bashir lowers his lashes, the shyness in his smile turning flirtatious. “Trust me.”

“Be that as it may, I’m not the same man as my counterpart. If you had any idea—”

“I told you, Garak,” Bashir interrupts, raising his voice. “I know what you’ve done, and I don’t care."

“You really should—”

"If you give us a chance, I know we can be happy together. Listen to me, Garak. Don't shut me out. I still care for you! If you just _let_ me—”

“Doctor!” Garak’s eyes dart across the Promenade as people begin to take notice of the spectacle. “You’re embarrassing yourself.”

“You’re not being fair!”

“If you were thinking clearly, you’d realize I’m being nothing but magnanimous. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a great deal of work to do.” Garak moves to close the door.

Bashir reaches out, shockingly fast, and grabs his sleeve. “ _Please, Elim—”_

Garak shakes him off with a violent jerk of his arm. “You have _no right_ to use that name! Do you understand?”

Bashir flinches. He swallows and nods.

“ _Do_ you?”

“Y-yes,” he chokes out. 

“Good. Now please allow me to close the door.”

Bashir gives him one last miserable glance and withdraws his arm. Once he’s gone, Garak locks the door and leans heavily against the frame. _Please let that be the last of it._

He can’t take more of it. The look on Bashir’s face haunts him. It’s like broken glass, the shards cutting at his insides. Garak shudders and the corners of his eyes sting. He wipes at his face. The tips of his fingers come back wet.

“That’s enough,” Garak snaps. Although he knows anyone watching would think him insane, there’s only the two of them here, chained together in shared enmity. He laces his words with ire to keep his voice even. “You’re nothing but a tool for Cardassia. One that’s outlived his usefulness. Now stop your sniveling or I’ll have you _erased_.”

_I mean every word, and you know it._

The wretchedness in his chest goes mute like a silenced mouth. A distant ache remains, but at least Garak knows that it’s his own.

He dabs the remnants of tears from his eyes and returns to sewing, careful to keep focused in case his counterpart tries to wrest control again. In time, Garak is sure he’ll dominate him, break him into serving his will like a tamed riding hound. But not yet.

Bashir’s words float back to him. _“I know what you’ve done.”_ From anyone else, it would be a threat. But coupled with the use of his given name, brandished in an act of desperation, it’s nothing but a last attempt at connection.

_What did you tell him, you fool?_

It’s late in the evening when Garak resolves to find out. It would be faster to break into the files from his terminal, but unlike his secret inquiries to his contacts, this is a blatant violation of a Starfleet Officer’s records. If the breach were detected, Odo would have little difficulty tracing it back to him. The records are his own, after all. It isn’t worth the risk of Gallitep.

No, this calls for the direct approach.

Garak paces, wringing his hands and working himself up. By the time he reaches the Habitat Ring, he’s suitably agitated. He hails the door repeatedly, part of him enjoying this petty little revenge, until the door slides open. Troi stands barefoot in a periwinkle silk robe, short hair tied back. “Garak,” she says, “what’s wrong?”

“Counselor, I apologize for my timing. I understand that my counterpart was regularly seeing you.”

She studies him closely and Garak’s esteem of her rises. So she doesn’t blindly rely on her empathic abilities. He fidgets, playing to her scrutiny. “We saw each other twice a week,” she says, presently. “Is that what’s upset you?”

“I have a right to know what he told you.”

Troi adjusts the belt on her robe. “Garak, it’s a quarter past midnight.” He’s about to argue when she continues, “If I show you your file, would that help?”

“Immensely.”

She steps aside and, beckoning him into her quarters, leads him to her private computer. Within a minute, she’s opened the file and turned to the first entry. Troi gestures for him to take a seat. “Would you like some deka tea?”

“No, thank you,” Garak says absently, his attention on the lengthy transcript. It's almost entirely Pela speaking, with some interruptions from Troi and Doctor Bashir. “I've always found Bajoran tea nausea-inducing.”

“That’s odd. You always had a cup when you visited me.” She orders her own mug of tea and takes her place behind his chair. “This isn’t the first time you’ve shown up at my doorstep in the middle of the night, you know.”

Garak taps through the pages, skimming. “Oh?”

“Mhm. The past two weeks, you were doing it every night. Some of it was wedding jitters, I think. But some of it, I couldn’t make sense of what was agitating you.”

Garak looks up in surprise.

There’s a rustle of her answering shrug. “It’s all in there,” she says, nodding to the computer.

He wonders, not for the first time, if Pela had seen it coming. For Garak, it had been a slap of cold water to the face. He turns back to the monitor. “Do you have the recordings for this?”

“Only audio. Would you rather listen to them?”

“Perhaps later.” It’s eerie enough, reading the words and hearing himself echoed in them. He isn’t ready to have them uttered in his own voice. While Troi sips from her mug, Garak continues to read. It’s all there, the details reflected back exactly as in his memories, without the revisionism of Pela’s bias. That in itself is strange. He’d expect Pela’s perceptions to color his narrative to some degree. As he reads, Garak is careful to keep his expression, his emotions, in check. Despite the concurrency of memory, he’s taken such pains over the years to distance himself from them that they may as well have happened to someone else.

When he comes to what he’s been looking for, Garak almost smiles. A clever bit of subterfuge, the splitting of Enabran Tain in half. An elegant solution in its simplicity. Even as another man, he’s still guarding Tain’s secrets.

“I sensed that you were not always being truthful with me,” Troi says.

Troi’s notes are missing from the file. Apparently even the Federation doesn’t believe in complete transparency. Garak pages to the next transcript. “Truth is in the eye of the beholder,” he says.

“I expect my clients to lie to me, Garak. And I’m fine with it, even when it prevents me from doing my job. For some people, therapy is a vulnerable time, and withholding the truth is their way of keeping some control. For others, it’s a matter of survival.”

“A very Federation viewpoint, overemphasizing the value of honesty. Some might call it a _fixation._ ”

“True,” she admits, and he can hear the amusement in her voice. “My point is, it isn’t the dissembling that took me by surprise, but how little you did it. Does it bother you, knowing you shared all this with me?”

 _Bother_ doesn’t even begin to describe it. _Vex_ and _humiliate_ might be closer to the mark. He tries to put it out of his mind. The damage has been done, and there's nothing he can do to contain it. Besides erasing the evidence and eliminating the witnesses, that is. 

The next session in the file is entirely about Bashir, and Garak slows down to fully absorb it. He points to a troublesome word that keeps reappearing. “I’m unfamiliar with this term,” he says.

She looks over his shoulder and smiles. “Imzadi. It’s a term of endearment on Betazed, like your Cardassian a’latli. It can have platonic connotations, but in this case we were talking about romantic love. Your imzadi is not just your lover, but the first person with whom you’re spiritually bonded.”

There’s no doubting Pela’s sincerity; it drips from every word as he refers to Bashir as _imzadi_ and _a’latli_ and _ja’lat_ as if one language can’t encompass his emotions. Garak can hardly believe it. _That_ man, the one who just hours before was on the verge of a tantrum in front of his shop? _That_ is the man who strikes sparks within him, whose very gaze sheaths itself in his heart? Garak closes his eyes and rubs the ridges at the bridge of his nose.

He can feel Troi staring at him. “Does the term apply to someone else?” she asks. “Pythas?”

Garak nearly laughs at the idea. How could he have a _spiritual_ connection with someone who was often monosyllabic? Pythas had an incisive mind, but carrying a conversation with him was as pleasurable as pulling molars from a reticent detainee. “No,” Garak says. Much as he loves Pythas, he’s always known it was not quite enough, the ember never as bright as they’d hoped. He’d thought himself incapable of that depth of feeling. _A’latli_ was a word that only had meaning in the romantic poetry redacted by Union censors.

 _Cursed with sentiment,_ Tain would say. Cursed, yet always out of reach.

“But you don’t feel what you did before,” Troi finishes.

Her staunch refusal to refer to his counterpart as a separate person is beginning to wear thin. “If it isn’t any trouble, Counselor,” Garak says, standing, “I’d like a copy of these documents.”

She nods. “I’ll send them to you.”

In the coming days, he sees little of Bashir. Garak knows better than to believe that means anything. The human is likely biding his time, regrouping. He won’t give up so easily. But Bashir never visits the Replimat, and Garak takes advantage of the opportunity to absorb every scrap of news that floats his way.

The station’s residents have reintroduced themselves in droves, reassured by his familiar face. Finicky, superficial creatures. It’s a failing he has no qualms in exploiting as he sits undisturbed, sipping tea and reading the movement of their mouths.

One particular lunch, he catches the tail end of a hubbub, disdain hissed between teeth. He can’t hear anything distinct among the muttering, but he catches the words “ _that Rigelian again”_ on a human’s lips. Garak twists in his seat and spots the subject of ridicule at once: a Jelna Rigelian in Starfleet red, clutching a tray and arguing with a group of petty and commissioned officers assembled around a table. It continues for a minute before the Rigelian stalks off to an empty table. “I’m serious this time, Bottaquey!” one calls to the Rigelian’s retreating back, laughing. “Come on, don’t give up now!”

This has gone on for the past two lunches, a minor commotion in the background din of the Replimat. Garak has been so focused on picking up any information on Cardassia and the so-called Dominion that he’s hardly noticed. He can’t recall a Rigelian anywhere on the crew rosters since he last checked, which means only one thing. At once he readies a plan.

Garak rises with the pretense of replicating more tea and circles around until he’s alongside the Rigelian’s table. They stab at the buttons of a PADD, ignoring the cooling lunch at their elbow. Garak clears his throat and smiles. “It’s Ensign Bottaquey, isn’t it?” he says.

“Great,” they mutter. “Now even the Bajorans know. Whatever joke you’re about to tell,” they say, their voice rough with emotion, “I already heard it. And it wasn’t funny the first time.”

“And what joke would that be?”

Bottaquey lowers the PADD and looks up at him. The green geometric figures tattooed across their face is a striking contrast against icterine skin. Garak isn’t an expert on Rigelian biology, but they look much older than the average ensign. “You haven’t heard?”

“Not yet. You’re new to this station, aren’t you?”

“Transferred here three days ago from the _USS Portland._ My captain thought it’d be easier for everyone if I had a fresh start . . . somewhere else.” Bottaquey smiles without humor. “I wish I’d known how fast news travels in deep space. You _really_ haven’t heard about me?”

The oversight wounds Garak’s professional pride, but it’s one easily remedied. In his periphery, he spots Major Kira beside the replicators, gripping a blue mug and staring at them. “I could ask you the same thing about me,” he says.

When Bottaquey draws back to study him, it’s without the comparative assessment. “You’re a Bajoran who speaks fluent Standard. In a Cardassian accent, no less.”

“How very perceptive. You see, you already have me at a disadvantage.”

Bottaquey’s smile shows the hint of teeth. “Besides that, I don’t know. Why don’t you sit down, Mister—”

“Garak. Just Garak, if you please.”

“Garak,” they repeat, emphasizing the Cardassian syllables. “I’d warn you against having anything to do with me, but to hell with it. I could use all the friends I can get.”

Garak inclines his head, taking the offered seat with a smile. It’s most refreshing, talking to someone who has never met his counterpart—the closest he’ll come to a blank slate. Bottaquey’s opinion of him won’t stay untarnished for long, but for now, in this wondrous, comfortable instant, Garak is an unknown entity. Enigmatic.

As the days pass, he continues to make progress in his sewing. Although it’s never easy to slip into that buried state, Garak finds with each attempt that he can sustain it for longer, watching in a detached haze as his alien hands manipulate the fabric. Reviving is like waking from a blackout to discover a half-completed dress hanging from a mannequin.

Still, Garak waits for news—from his dwindling list of contacts, from the Order, from Tain. He’ll take anyone, even that impertinent probe Seska. Oh, but she’ll be an impertinent operative by now, won’t she? It doesn’t matter. He'd accept rescue from her in a heartbeat. Meanwhile, Sisko has assured him that Gul Dvoll received his message and will “swing by the station after her reconnaissance.” When _that_ will be, he cannot say.

 _Patience, Elim_.

He repeats the mantra each night as his messages go unanswered. Some of them must’ve reached their intended recipients by now. Each day Garak casts a wider net, but the result is the same: silence. He should’ve heard something. A rejection, perhaps, or a threat on his life. Even a plea from a widow to cease his inquiries would be better than _nothing_. The lack of response can’t be poor timing alone.

Garak is in the middle of his evening calisthenics when his computer chirps. His head snaps in its direction. A new message, at last. Jumping to his feet, he grabs a towel and dabs at his face as he crosses the room. Really, he should’ve known better than to be so easily discouraged. Still breathing heavily from exertion, he keys the console.

The message that appears on the screen is short and polite. An inquiry about his plans to reopen the shop, from Ensign Bottaquey.

Garak feels his shoulders sag. Yes, of course, they’d been discussing what to do about that shingle above the shop, and how he’d need to order a new one. Bottaquey had offered their services, boasting that they were descended from a family of woodcarvers and could fashion a proper sign within two days. It was a very kind offer, and one he intended to accept given adequate compensation.

Well, he shouldn’t keep the ensign waiting for a response.

He’s about to draft a reply when his fingers pause over the keys. His mouth has suddenly gone dry. Every muscle in his body tenses, as if in defiance.

“Computer, delete all messages.”

“Acknowledged. All messages have been deleted.”

“Establish proxy link with site Pantaya 2518 authorization 42-myrna-kut-1.”

“Link established.”

Garak stabs at the keys, too fast for a chance to reconsider.

They’re ignoring him. Deliberately ignoring him. The audacity of it, after all he’s done! The commands come to him like breathing, and he encrypts the signal with flicks of his fingers. Naturally the routes have changed since he’s been gone. Finding the new ones is a challenge, but even his outmoded skills still have some use.

_This is foolishness, Elim. A mistake you can’t take back._

It’s too late. The comm goes through.

Garak drops into his seat and glares at the screen as he waits for the other party to answer. A moment later, the screen blinks with the interior shot of a lush room, a woman’s round face at its center. A knot of tension unwinds in Garak's chest. She’s alive. Even if he’s lost everything else, he has _that_ much.

“This is a private channel, Bajoran,” she snaps, her gaze narrowed on him. “If you close this link at once, I will assume you’re merely _stupid_ and mixed up your numbers.”

For a second, Garak’s finger twitches over the key as he considers doing exactly that. She doesn’t recognize him. Of all people, she doesn’t _recognize_ him. The shock of that floors him beyond words. He looks away, feeling the stinging slap of it, chagrined by her dismissal and his own reaction to it.

Suddenly she gasps and Garak looks back to find her leaning forward, one hand reaching up. “ _Elim.”_

Garak smiles. “It’s heartening to see that you haven’t _completely_ forgotten me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Mila’s eyes flick away. When she looks at him again, it’s obliquely, as if she’s cautiously sneaking glances at the sun. He can’t blame her. “I never forgot you,” she whispers, and there’s an unmistakable fondness in her voice. “I never thought I’d see your face again.”

 _Such as it is,_ Garak laments. He raises his hand to the screen to meet hers. “Mila—”

“What are you doing, contacting me like this?” she says. “Have you lost your mind?”

“That’s a distinct possibility.”

She snorts in agreement. “Well, your impulsiveness is putting us both in danger. I’m cutting this communication.”

“Mila, _please._ I’ve been unable to establish contact with anyone else.”

“That would be your own fault.”

“What do you mean?”

She sighs heavily as if he’s nothing but an exasperating, fussy child. “I don’t owe you an explanation. You know very well what you’ve done, burning yourself like some third-rate junior probe. And instead of having the sense to eliminate yourself, you made a laughingstock of the Order with that idiotic trial.”

“That wasn’t me!”

“It doesn’t matter. You abandoned Cardassia. You rejected your _home._ For a human, Elim.”

Garak fights the urge to argue, and he remembers Mila, serving tray in hand, offering advice. _You’d be wise, Elim,_ she’d said, _not to program that Bajoran with your sentimentality._ He should’ve listened to her. “If I could only talk with Tain—”

“You’d what? Convince him of his error? Surely you don’t think he’s unaware of your situation. He can’t help you, Elim. He’s retired.”

“That’s absurd,” Garak says. Tain had always talked of retiring, as a wry joke. The head of the Obsidian Order did not simply walk away. Tain wasn’t the type to gracefully hand over the reins of power. “Then again, he always praised Arawath’s white beaches.”

There’s a flicker in her eyes—the subtlest tell—but he’s attuned to it. “You’re wasting your time,” Mila says, and her voice takes on a note of urgency. “Be thankful for what you still have.”

Given the circumstances, Garak can’t muster gratitude for having his life spared. “Maybe you’re right. I’d hate to interrupt Tain’s retirement over something so trivial. Who did he leave in his place? Lok? Korinas? Please tell me it’s not that idiot Maladek!”

“This conversation has gone on long enough.” Mila squares her shoulders and from the set of her jaw he knows he’ll be getting nothing more from her. “I won’t be coming to your rescue.”

“You never did,” Garak agrees. “Why would I expect it now?”

Her eyes slide over him, sharp even as he scores the hit. “Then why did you contact me?”

She cuts the transmission.

Garak stares at the black screen, his pulse pounding in his temples and tightly clenched fists. He rubs at his face. He’d hoped, perhaps, that someone in the Order would understand. It wasn’t his doing. They had to know that. But he’d made a laughingstock of the Order, she’d said. A third-rate junior probe, she’d said. Oh, and the way she’d _looked_ at him, like he was filth!

He draws in a long shuddering breath and crosses the room. She was right to refuse him, and he was wrong to expect her help. This is only an extension of many decades of the same lesson: he’ll have to find his own way.

The remote is in the bedside table, where he left it. Its plastic casing is warm in the palm of his hand. Garak sits at the edge of the bed and inspects its simple controls.

How many times did his counterpart use this remote? Once? Enough to fear dependence and hide it away in a lockbox?

“What was it about your perfect life that you found so difficult?” Garak asks with undisguised resentment, not expecting an answer and not getting one. All for the best—it’s a small mercy that he isn’t hearing voices. Desperate as he is for good conversation, he’s not eager for Pela as a partner.

The question remains: what drove Pela to build such a device? Granted, the doctor is an infuriating pest, but not enough of one to demand an escape into endorphin-fueled delirium.

Garak fiddles with the dial, bringing it to its lowest setting. Had it been something Pela had done, something he’d seen? Could he not handle the pain of regret? Possibly. Then again, maybe it wasn’t Pela’s thoughts that haunted him. Perhaps it was Garak’s own memories that were to blame.

Yes, that’s it, the final pin of truth setting in place.

Garak circles his thumb over the remote’s button. He should’ve thought of this years ago. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The word _a’latli_ and its meaning comes from prairiecrow's [When the Farsei Blooms](http://archiveofourown.org/works/242288). Bajoran and Kardasi words are from [here](http://www.geocities.ws/greig_isles/bajengdict.html) and [here](https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B2wcj3iYdWofYjN1elFWaWZoTlU/view), respectively, with some bastardization from yours truly.


	8. Chapter 8

“Ah, Elim!” Tain says with a smile that is distilled warmth. “Come in, come in.”

Garak closes the door and obeys at once, hurrying to the desk where Tain is already pouring the kanar. 

“You did well, Elim. Better than even I expected.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Tain pauses, then sets the bottle down without finishing his task. He looks at Garak fondly. “Come here.”

Garak pulls his attention from the half-filled glasses and the twinkling dust motes. In any lucid reality, he’d be unsettled by Tain’s affectionate demeanor, but this isn’t a lure. He closes the distance with two quick steps, and when Tain takes hold of his neckridges, Garak falls into the embrace without hesitation.

“There,” Tain says against his ear, caressing his hair with slow strokes of his hand, “go ahead, my boy. Say it.”

Garak’s question is a muffled inflection against his shoulder. 

That earns him an indulgent chuckle. Tain draws him back just enough to look him over, then leans in to press his lips to the center of Garak’s chufa in a gesture so primordial Garak’s eyes flutter closed, overwhelmed and shivering with joy. “Father, of course,” Tain says.

Garak comes to with a sharp gasp, like a diver surfacing for breath. Glancing down, he finds the remote still in his hand. His thumb has slipped from the trigger button. Disembodied and euphoric, he stays there, lying on his back until the haze fades from his mind and tingling limbs.

Perhaps he was a tad hasty in praising his own sanity.

Garak sits up and hides the remote away in its drawer. _That_ will have to be used in moderation until he’s tweaked its idiosyncrasies. He straightens his clothing and smoothes his hair. In the meantime, he’ll have to find another source of distraction.

When Garak strides into the bar, the Ferengi bartender is hunched over the back counter, lifting bottles and wiping beneath them with wide, circular strokes of a washcloth. The dinner crowd has recently thinned out. Most of the bar’s patrons gather around the dabo wheels, their shouts and squeals a cacophonous but easily ignored background din. With the _USS Defiant_ off on a mission in the Gamma Quadrant—taking much of the senior staff and Doctor Bashir along with it—Garak settles into a seat at the bar, assured he won’t be interrupted. He inclines his head to the Lurian with the open-mouthed stare and moves to catch the bartender’s attention.

“I’ll be right with you,” the Ferengi mutters over his shoulder. “Just one—” He straightens at once as he catches sight of Garak. He grins and snaps the rag across his arm. “Well, well, well. Look who _finally_ deigned to show up to my bar. It’s Garak, right?”

By now everyone in the quadrant must know who he is. It’s been several days since anyone reacted to him with confusion or surprise. “And you must be Quark.”

The Ferengi’s grin turns feral. “At your service. Lemme guess: kanar, straight up.”

“Your perspicacity is a thing of wonder.”

“Bartender’s sixth sense.”

“What varieties of kanar do you have on hand?”

“One. Skenyl.”

Garak inwardly cringes. He may as well guzzle dilithium runoff.

“Want me to pour you a glass?”

“That depends,” Garak says. “What year is it?”

“Nobody’s ever asked me that.” Quark pulls out a PADD and runs his tongue over the tips of his teeth. “Says here 2368.”

For a moment, Garak’s brain stutters over the paradox of drinking kanar that’s been distilled nine years in the future. Reluctantly, he orders a glass and watches the Ferengi unscrew the cap. Perhaps the intervening years have allowed Skenyl to improve their process.

He should’ve known better than to hope; as the Skenyl hits the back of Garak’s throat, it’s as thick and unsubtle as the sludge from his memories, and he can’t quite suppress a cough.

Quark frowns. “That bad?”

“If I’m to stay here for any length of time,” Garak says with some strain, “you’ll have to order something more appropriate. Aravok, perhaps.”

“Aravok? They stopped making that stuff a long time ago. Even if I got my hands on a bottle—no offense, but something tells me it’d be out of your price range.”

Of course.

“Look on the bright side,” Quark continues, topping off the glass, “Cardassia’s been putting out more kanar in the past decade. Why, during the Occupation, I was selling five cases of Dobar Plains every day. Who knows, maybe you’ll like it.” Quark’s eyes flick over Garak’s shoulder. He grabs a bottle and begins to mix another drink. “Don’t look now, but Major Kira just came in, and she doesn’t look too happy to see you.”

Garak swirls the kanar and pretends to find interest in how it clings to the sides of the glass. It’s tempting to turn in his seat and favor her with a smile, but he resists. “Ah, yes, the dear major has been following me around the station for the past week.” And shooting him the dirtiest of looks from behind bulkheads and around corners. Instinct tells him that his life isn’t in any danger, but he isn’t in the habit of letting Bajorans stalk him. “Are she and Doctor Bashir good friends?”

“Not even close. But she was with you.”

Garak hazards a glance to his left. “Really?”

“I suggest staying on her good side. Not that she’s got a lot of those. She’s _still_ holding a grudge against me over that holosuite thing the other day.”

“I’ll be sure to take your advice,” Garak says and downs the kanar. He’s about to reach for the bottle when Quark snatches it up.

“Speaking of Doctor Bashir,” Quark says as he pours, “it’s too bad you two couldn’t work it out. He’s a good kid, you know. You’re not gonna find much better on this station, especially on account of you being old, and an ex-convict.”

“I was wondering why this establishment seemed deserted. I can’t imagine insulting your customers is good for business.”

“It’s off hours. Besides, somebody around here’s gotta tell it like it is. The way he’s been coming in, crying—”

“Need I remind _everyone_ that I stabbed that man you’re so desperate to see me paired off with?”

Quark leers. “What’s a little stabbing in the grand scheme of love? I have it on authority that’s considered foreplay on Cardassia.”

Garak rolls his eyes down to his glass of kanar. _This isn’t Cardassia._ His reflection frowns back up at him. The sight of his Bajoran face is no longer shocking. Like a laceration faded to jagged scar tissue, it only distantly offends him. Reduced to this. “He’s a human,” Garak says. “Would you marry an alien you’ve hardly met?”

“Been there,” Quark says, crossing the bar to top off the Lurian’s ale, “done that.”

Garak raises a brow and makes a mental note to learn that particular story. Another time. Soured on conversation, Garak takes his sludge and slips away into the upper reaches of the bar. From this vantage point, he watches the flow of patrons, observing who sits with whom, their mannerisms, what they order, the movement of their lips. When he’s lucky enough to catch someone who speaks a language he understands, he reads the words as they form until the world around him goes for a pleasant spin.

The following night, he meets Bottaquey at the dabo wheel. The ensign is out of uniform, dressed in a loose-fitting outfit of deep viridian the color of cabrodine powder, their hair braided and beaded. Bottaquey wastes no time introducing him to Rigelian bloodwine. “Far superior to the Klingon variety,” they say, carrying two glasses between their fingers. It’s served hot, and they smile widely as Garak praises its smooth aftertaste. Leaning in to be heard over the shouting, they ask, “So, have you uncovered my secret yet?”

“I have some theories,” Garak says. He pauses for effect and answers Bottaquey’s conspiratorial posture by drawing closer. “You encountered a number of valuable Iconian artifacts on an away mission some years ago, including some advanced transporter technology, and were discretely selling them off to the highest bidder.”

“I couldn’t have been that discrete if I was caught.”

“You made the fatal mistake of trusting your friends.”

Bottaquey takes a sip of bloodwine and looks up at him. “Is that all I did?”

“That’s only the beginning,” Garak says, warming to his story. He’s already perused Bottaquey’s file, including the results of the inquest and subsequent court martial, but it’s a fun little game, pretending to guess at Bottaquey’s crime, the infamous act of disobedience that earned them a demotion from commander.

“Nobody in the history of Starfleet has ever been demoted so far without serving time in prison,” Bottaquey says several rounds of bloodwine later, clinking the rim of their glass to his in a Federation gesture of goodwill. That isn’t entirely true—the last case was two centuries ago—but Garak appreciates Bottaquey’s mendacity. It’s only when Bottaquey looks away, pretending to find interest in the gamblers, that Garak catches the pain in their eyes.

“In all seriousness, my dear,” Garak says, far too loudly, because the first thing to go when he’s drunk is his sense of proper volume, “if you were a Cardassian, Central Command would’ve promoted you to legate.”

“Maybe. But the Cardassians don’t have anything similar to the Prime Directive, do they?”

“No, we don’t. Unlike the Federation, we don’t needlessly tie our hands in order to feel superior.”

“I’m sorry.” Bottaquey blinks rapidly. “I thought I’d moved past feeling sorry for myself.”

Garak covers their hand, the warmest offer of support he can offer with so many eyes upon them, one failure to another. “Please, there’s no need to apologize.”

By the evening’s end, Garak has come to the sad realization that he’s severely overestimated his body’s ability to tolerate alcohol. It sneaks up on him as he’s rising to stand. Only Bottaquey’s quick reflexes keep him from falling on his face. He grips the back of his chair and sways. _Dear me._ He’s forgotten how to walk.

His awareness comes in fragments: Bottaquey’s arm around his waist, the bright lights of the Promenade, his own unrestrained laughter, Constable Odo’s disapproving stare. There’s a lag, like an ancient radio transmission, between when Garak speaks and Bottaquey answers. “You’re confusing the Universal Translator,” they explain, smiling. “I’ve heard people pick up accents when they’re drunk, but never come up with their own language.”

Garak feels his cheeks go hot. The reaction, beyond his control, only embarrasses him further. Thankfully, Bottaquey seems too preoccupied with keeping him aloft to have noticed. When they reach his doorstep, Garak smoothes out his clothes. “I really must—”

Bottaquay cuts him off. “Please don’t apologize,” they say. They dip their head in the formal Cardassian gesture for _thank you._

Garak nods and, bidding Bottaquey goodnight, slips into his quarters. He leans on the wall for support as he lurches to the console and collapses into the seat. Still no messages. For an instant of deranged, intoxicated logic, Garak considers tracking down Tain to the Arawath colony and sending him a comm, but the reasonable part of his brain that’s still functioning manages to dissuade him. Instead he finds himself perusing the files Troi sent him days ago. He’s already read and reread the transcripts, groping blindly for insight, some understanding into his counterpart’s mind, to little avail.

The recordings remain unplayed.

Garak rubs the bridge of his nose. “Computer,” he says, reclining back and focusing on getting the words out without slurring, “play recording Pela Serot Stardate 48002.5.”

As with all the transcripts, the audio begins mid-conversation, as if Troi began the recording as an afterthought. “Yes,” Troi says. “Do you think you’re ready now? To talk about Ro Laren?”

The answering voice is tentative. “I don’t think I’ll ever be ready. I don’t even know what to say. She was a confused young woman, in and out of camps all her life. She didn’t deserve to die like that.” There’s a pause. When he speaks again, his voice is firm, even. “It makes me sick. I wish I could’ve warned her. When I remember it—and I _do_ remember it, Counselor. It’s not like it was with Julian’s alphawave inducer. The times when Garak’s possessed me like this, I remember everything. I keep thinking about the sounds, of her—her bones. And then I start feeling claustrophobic.”

Garak shifts in the chair. It’s unpleasant, hearing his own voice at such a pitch.

“Were you able to sense Garak’s thoughts at that point?” asks Troi.

“There _was_ no thought to it! It was senseless. But I can imagine what he’d think. Better her than me.”

“Computer,” Garak interrupts, “stop playback and play recording Pela Serot Stardate 48119.2.”

The computer chirps in response. The next recording begins.

“I know he’s lying to me. It has something to do with his parents. He thinks I’m stupid and I don’t know—”

“Do you honestly believe Julian thinks that?”

“Why else won’t he tell me the truth? He doesn’t trust me. Really, he _shouldn’t_ trust me. Why should he? I’ve been lying my whole life. I don’t even know who I am. He can’t _possibly_ want me.”

Garak listens to the remaining recordings as his counterpart grows more agitated and less coherent. It’s quite plain what’s happening, but Troi doesn’t seem to see anything beyond what she's termed "wedding jitters." Not that Garak can blame her for the assumption; Bashir is the prime focus of Pela’s rambling.

Garak leans forward, hand braced on the armrest as the room spins. If the dezothomide were chipping away at his identity, Pela would follow his deepest instinct: the one Garak programmed in him from the very beginning. Chasing the hunch, Garak remotely cracks into Bashir’s personal terminal and sifts through directories and files. He finds his quarry buried in a hidden folder, the file unopened since it was first written to memory some two weeks ago. Garak transfers it to his own computer and erases the original.

The next afternoon, Garak finishes his first suit. He celebrates at the bar that evening and the evening after that, hidden, spine pressed to a bulkhead, watching the colorful swirl of faces coming and going. Later, curled on his bed, he shakes off Saurian brandy with cold sweat and full-body shuddering.

On the third night of this routine, Garak spots Doctor Bashir weaving through the crowd. Ah, yes, Bottaquey had mentioned over lunch that the _Defiant_ was due back from the wormhole. At the bar, a Trill girl in a Starfleet cadet uniform waves her arm. Bashir sidles into the seat beside her. “How’s the moving going?” she asks after they’ve greeted each other.

“Terribly.” Bashir turns his head at a disruption at the dabo wheel, momentarily blocking Garak’s view of his lips. “—going through his old things. I don’t even know what I’m still doing here.”

“You don’t mean that,” she says.

Quark approaches the duo with a serving tray in hand. He sets a drink before the girl and, beckoning Bashir close, whispers in his ear.

Bashir whirls around, searching the bar with wide eyes. Garak dips back into the shadows just as his eyes reach the second level, narrowly avoiding detection. He stays there, waiting for the danger to pass, before emerging to take another peek below.

Bashir is out of his seat, looking from table to table, as if ready to tear the bar upside down. The Trill girl grasps his arm and reels him back in. Her lips move, half-hidden by the doctor’s shoulder. Garak grasps the railing and leans forward.

“—Coming on too strong,” she’s saying. Bashir’s response is obscured by the tilt of his head as he grabs the girl’s glass and downs its contents with a wince. She makes a face and continues, “You need to give him—” Garak can’t identify the next word, but he suspects it might be _space,_ “—if you want a chance with him.”

Garak shakes his head. _Young lady, you’re encouraging a man with a hopeless cause._

“You’re a stranger to him,” she adds.

“I _know_ that!” Bashir snaps, the words exaggerated on his lips. “But I love him, Ezri.”

“Give him time.”

Bashir turns away and waves her off so rudely that Garak mentally apologizes to the girl on his behalf. She shoots Bashir a lingering glance and slides off the barstool. Once she’s gone, Bashir flags down a Ferengi waiter. For a time, he merely sits there, alone, rubbing at his face and slumped forward. Garak watches his profile, the way he keeps stealing glances over his shoulder.

_What did you see in this creature?_ Garak wonders. The man is physically alluring, and Garak is many things, including a liar, but he can’t deny _that_. Garak admires the curve of Bashir’s bronze neck as he tosses back a shot of green alcohol. There’s no grace to his movements, no hint of subterfuge behind his tired expression. Is that all there is? He gave away everything he is for a sulky brat with a pretty face?

Garak checks the time. He had better return to the shop and finalize his last preparations. Garak descends the staircase, blending into his surroundings.  _You should keep an eye on your patient, Counselor Troi,_ he thinks as he slips through the crowd and past Bashir. _Before he develops a nasty habit._

In the recesses of his shop, Garak arranges racks and mannequins to his liking and puts the finishing touches on his newest suit. He lifts it up for inspection and feels his smile freeze somewhere between pride and revulsion. Sighing, Garak sets it back down. Well, it can’t be any worse than living in this soft, pink skin.

It’s late in the evening when Bottaquey arrives with the sign. They stand off to the side, watching with interest as Garak assembles the pike pole and guides the hook through the rung from which Pela’s shingle hangs. When he snags the sign on the first attempt, they smile. “Very impressive.”

“No more difficult than threading a needle,” Garak says, lowering it to the floor. “But your support is much appreciated.”

Bottaquey is helping place their newly chiseled sign on the pike's hook when they hesitate. “Garak. You have an admirer.”

Garak turns. There's Bashir, half-hidden behind a pillar and staring at him with open longing. Really, this is getting ridiculous. If he didn’t already know the real reason behind Bashir’s attention, he might even be flattered. Garak chooses to ignore him and focus on the matter at hand. The human is sure to give up, eventually.

A minute later, the new shingle hangs in its place, swaying. Garak admires the curved symbols of his name transliterated into Bajoran. “Thank you, my dear,” Garak tells Bottaquey.

“I’m glad I could put my woodcarving skills to good use.”

“Now, about your payment.” Resting a hand on Bottaquey's shoulder, Garak leads them into the shop. “Do you prefer Tholian silk or the Triaxian variety?”

The next morning, Garak pulls on his new suit and opens the shop. Within a half hour, his first Bajoran customers stride through, commenting amongst themselves about the changes he’s made to the layout. When they spot him behind the counter, standing at ready, there is no missing the approval in their eyes. A few even compliment his appearance before asking if he has any swimwear in stock. Garak smiles and nods.

Surely they know, at a subconscious level, that he’s manipulating them. Not that it makes a difference. This is nothing but a role. And like Garak the gardener or Garak the ambassador’s aide, Garak the tailor fits just as easily—differently measured doses of servile he’s been practicing since childhood—and he’ll play the role until the time comes to shed it.

_Patience, Elim,_ Garak tells himself as he assists a particularly fussy customer in the dressing room, _you’ll be home and back in Tain’s good graces soon enough._

Garak takes lunch in the Replimat, alone for once; Bottaquey is on duty, and Constable Odo declined his offer to share a meal with a gruff, “I don’t eat,” before adding, “but thank you.” The silence is welcome regardless, and with the warm smiles the Bajorans are sending his way, it’s almost pleasant.

“All right, that’s it!”

Garak pauses with his fork midway to his mouth and lifts his eyes to find Major Kira glaring at him, arms akimbo. “Pardon me?”

She hisses a colorful expletive, loud enough to draw shocked glances from adjacent tables.

“Major,” Garak says, “there’s no need to mar such a beautiful language with vulgarities.”

Kira smiles unpleasantly. “Is that so? You want to tell me how to speak my own language?” She slams her hands on the tabletop, jostling the centerpiece and rattling Garak’s plate. “Why’d you do it?”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to be more descriptive.”

“This!” she says, waving at him up and down. “Why’d you go to all the trouble? Who were you spying on? What was the damn _point_ of it?”

Garak pushes his plate aside—Ktarian cuisine is inedible anyway—and gestures to the seat across from him. “Why don’t you sit down, Major, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

She pauses, but he can already see her curiosity overtaking her suspicion. “You’re trying to trick me.”

“Now why would I do something like that?”

“You’re a Cardassian!”

“Precisely. Everyone in this sector knows me as the infamous Cardassian spy. It’s not a secret. I’ve been publically disgraced and exiled.” Garak keeps his voice upbeat, even as the words lance his heart. “What would be the point in withholding the truth?”

Kira works her jaw and pulls out the chair. “Fine,” she says, sitting. “You can start with explaining what happened to Pela.”

“I’ve been told you and he were close friends.”

“I—” Kira shakes her head. “I guess you could say that.”

The hesitance in her tone is alarming. “Was it more—” Garak pitches his voice low,  “— _involved_ than friendship?”

“What? No! Prophets, _no._ It was never like that!”

Garak releases a breath. _Thank the Union._ He doesn’t need an additional complication in his love life.

She notices his relief and snorts. “No offense," she says, the corners of her lips tugging upward, "but you were never my type.”

“None taken,” Garak says.

“What happened to him?” Kira studies him with that same searching look she gave him in the brig. “Is he gone, or is he still . . . in there somewhere?”

“What do you think?”

“If I knew that, I wouldn’t be asking.”

This is a perfect opportunity, falling directly into his lap. “Perhaps it would be easier if I started from the beginning. Did my counterpart ever tell you how I came up with his name?” When Kira only shakes her head, eyes narrowed but clearly intent, Garak sits back and begins.

The remaining day progresses smoothly with a manageable trickle of customers. Even Commander Sisko drops by to congratulate him on his reopening and to purchase a lounge sweater. Although the stream of business is not overwhelming, it keeps Garak from his sizeable pile of alterations. After closing for the evening, he continues to work, soothed by the steady snapping of the sewing wand.

Then a fist pounds at the door.

Garak squares his shoulders. He’s certain Troi can sense the spike of his anger from across the station. After several minutes of pretending it doesn't exist, the pounding shows no sign of letting up. Time to settle this.

Like several nights before, Garak opens the door only a crack. “Really, Doctor, this is—”

Before Garak can stop him, Bashir shoves past and into the shop.

“Doctor Bashir! I can’t—”

“Shut _up_ , Garak,” Bashir snaps. “I’ve had enough of your nonsense.”

Garak blinks at him. His _nonsense?_

Bashir paces back and forth in a frenzy, running his fingers through his hair and glaring at every rack of clothing that stands in his way. “I’ve tried being nice to you, even after you drugged and _stabbed_ me. I dropped the charges against you so we could try to make it work. All that, and you act like you can’t stand to be in the same room as me! Why? I don’t understand what I’ve done to you!”

“I have no intention of being interrogated in my own shop,” Garak says, striding over to his computer terminal to call security.

Bashir grabs his wrist. Garak tries to shake free, but to his alarm Bashir’s fingers don’t budge. How does a man who looks like he couldn’t lift a single fabric roll somehow have the death grip of a Klingon? Garak winces at the pressure even as another eerie sensation runs down his spine. Familiarity.

Garak looks between his wrist and Bashir’s determined face. He can have Bashir lying on the floor with a fractured nose in an instant, but he remains still, waiting.

“This isn’t your shop, Garak,” Bashir says. “It’s Serot’s.”

Garak steps closer until they’re nose to nose. “Has it occurred to you that this attitude of yours is precisely the problem?”

Bashir breaks eye contact. “You’re right,” he whispers, his expression pinched, defeated. “You’re absolutely right. I've been unfair to you, haven't I?” He releases Garak's wrist with a choked breath and, still looking at the floor, says, “I love Serot. And I miss . . . I miss him _so much_. If I could trade you away for another second with him, I would.”

The admission hurts more than Garak expected, but he isn’t surprised. “There,” he says brightly, “that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“That doesn’t mean we can’t make it work. You’ve been perfectly nice to everyone else. The Bajorans—it’s bad enough, you hanging around that cock-up Bottaquey—now I see you’re making friends with bloody _Kira.”_

“I’m impressed, Doctor. And I thought _I_ was supposed to be the spy.”

“You aren’t giving me much of a choice,” Bashir says.

Garak scowls. While he can’t fault Bashir’s methods of information gathering, the fact that he’s blaming _him_ for it is profoundly vexing.

Bashir tugs at Garak’s sleeve. “And what’s this you’re wearing?”

“Only an attempt to practice my craft.”

“It’s nice,” Bashir says, looking Garak up and down. His eyes are dark and penetrative. They make it clear that it isn’t Garak’s suit he’s appraising. “You’ve always looked good in Bajoran clothes.”

Garak feels a shiver go through him. He makes an offhand gesture to cover it up. “Oh, it’s all in the tailoring.”

“That’s something Serot would say. He was always good at looking confident, but he was insecure about his appearance.” Bashir moves to touch Garak’s face. “You’re not eating well.”

Garak retreats several paces, ceding ground, and motions toward the door. “This is a _fascinating_ discussion, Doctor, but you really must be going.”

“Oh, no,” Bashir says, rushing forward to corner Garak against his workbench. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily! Not after the way you gave me the runaround this past week. Don’t you see, Garak? I already know you. You couldn’t have created Serot without putting so much of yourself into him. For all your differences, you’re the same!”

“Those are some dangerous assumptions you're making.”

“It’s that bloody Obsidian Order training, isn’t it? It makes it hard to get close to people. You think forming attachments makes you weak. Well, you’re not in the Order anymore, Garak. You’re free to be with whomever you want.”

Garak looks down to where Bashir’s hands are flanking his hips on either side of the workbench and fights a surge of anger and panic at being trapped. “Doctor,” he growls in warning.

“Or is it something else that’s bothering you?” Bashir smiles suddenly as if he’s figured it all out. “Your past. Is that it? Oh, Garak, love, listen to me, you don’t have to worry. I know you did horrible things while you were in the Order. I might not know the particulars, but you don’t have to be ashamed. Whatever you did, I forgive you for it.”

“How can you possibly forgive me,” Garak sneers, “if you don’t know what for?”

“Easily. Because you’re a good person.”

“I don’t find foolishness appealing, Doctor.”

“Is that why you won’t give me a bloody _chance?”_ Bashir shoots back. “After everything we’ve been through together, you’re not even going to _try?_ Why can’t you just come out and say what you’re thinking! What is it, Garak? Are you not attracted to me?”

“No, _Doctor,”_ Garak snarls in the human’s face, forcing Bashir to shrink back, “it’s because I don’t _like_ you. You’ve proven to be childish and annoying, and I can’t conceive how _any_ part of me would be charmed by you except as part of the universe’s sick joke. I dedicated my entire career to serving Cardassia, and _this—_ ” Garak waves his arms around the shop, “—was going to be my crowning achievement. Not only have you destroyed everything I’ve worked for and reduced me to a pathetic laughingstock, but you’ve exiled me from my home. What you’ve done, Doctor, is ruin my life.”

Bashir pales. He looks stricken, as if he might cry again, and Garak’s ready with mocking jibes waiting on his tongue. Then Bashir draws himself up, and Garak sees it: the first fire of conviction in his eyes. Not this desperate, broken pleading, but the raw ire and determination of Bashir openly defying him with a dagger in his gut.

“I ruined _your_ life?” Bashir shouts. “Well, I’m terribly sorry for putting a pin in your grand plans to spy on Bajor and the Federation on behalf of your fascist state—”

“Ah, I was _wondering_ when you’d show that smug Federation sense of superiority!”

“—but I was perfectly happy before you showed up!”

“You mean with that facsimile of a person?” Garak laughs, heat kindling in his belly as he whispers in Bashir’s ear, “Admit it, he was never real.”

“Not _real?_ How can you possibly say that? Not real? As far as I’m concerned, Gar _ak—”_

“It's Garak, you gibbering man-child, not Gar _ak_ —”

“As far as I’m concerned, Gar _ak—”_ Bashir repeats with identical inflection, “Serot was more of a real person than you can ever hope to be!” Bashir glares down at him, so close the warmth of his breath caresses Garak’s lips. Then Bashir smiles, smug. “He sure as hell felt real to me when we were making love.”

Garak feels a thrill of outrage and lust course through him. “I see, that’s truly what rankles, isn’t it? That you no longer have access to my body for your own perverse enjoyment.”

Bashir’s jaw drops open. “Are you insinuating that I’ve been _raping_ you for the past two years?”

“What’s wrong, Doctor? Hit ‘too close to home’?”

“You wish it were that simple, don’t you? You, the victim, seduced by the villainous human—”

“I grant you, it does seem implausible, now that I’ve seen your technique.”

“My dear Mister Garak,” Bashir says hotly, “you loved every second of it!”

“Oh, I doubt that!”

“You did. And I have the recordings to prove it.”

Yes, this is _much_ better. Garak can’t tell if that’s a bluff or a threat, but it doesn’t matter. His clothes are hot and stifling and he’s aware that every inch of him is radiating his interest. Not that the human has bothered to notice. Garak swallows. Voice strained with desire, he says, “Recordings?”

“That’s right.” Bashir leans ever closer and lowers his voice. “Care for a summary, Garak? You flat on your back, hard as a rock, begging me to fuck you like a Risian whore. Your words, not mine.”

Garak grips the edge of the workbench. It takes all his effort to coyly twist away and give a shrug. “Then I suggest you enjoy them,” he says, “because that’s all you have left.”

Bashir goes quiet, and when Garak turns to look at him, he finds the man shaking. “Fuck you, Garak,” Bashir whispers as he clenches his fists. “You fucking bastard.”

Garak rolls his eyes. He can’t stand that word, but some of its sting is dulled when delivered in Federation Standard. “If you’re going to resort to petty name calling, you can get out.”

“My pleasure!” Bashir stomps his way to the door and stops. “I _hate_ you!”

Garak smiles. “The feeling is more than mutual.”

With a snarl of frustration, Bashir gives one of the clothing racks a shove. It crashes to the floor, dumping jackets and shawls everywhere. Bashir shoots him one last glare, tosses his head, and storms out.

Once he’s gone, Garak slips into the shop’s back room. Surrounded by rolls of textiles and cool, crisp air, he leans back against the wall and lets out a breath. He can hear his heart thudding in his chest as it pumps blood to muscles wound tight from rage and arousal.

Shivering, Garak runs his fingers over the smooth fabric of his Bajoran tunic, then up to the hot exposed skin of his neck. His rubs slowly, down to his shoulder and up again, his eyes fluttering closed and breath hitching as the heat spreads through him, pooling at the base of his spine.

“I’m sure I did, Doctor,” Garak says as he arches back. “I’m sure I did.”


	9. Chapter 9

“Brother’s got a betting pool on you and Doctor Bashir,” Rom drawls as he sets down Garak’s glass. In the past two weeks, the Ferengi has proven to be a reliable source of information, although Garak suspects he isn’t as dim-witted as he lets on. When Garak lifts his brows, encouraging him to continue, Rom leans closer to whisper, “He’s betting you’ll be married within three months!”

“Really,” Garak says. “I would think that a man with Quark’s _exceptional_ hearing would’ve picked up that the good doctor and I are not on speaking terms.”

“Rule of Acquisition 62,” Quark cuts in, circling Garak’s table to appear beside his brother, “the riskier the road, the greater the profit. Besides, the more I keep people talking, the more they keep showing up here to gossip and spend their latinum.”

Garak smiles thinly. “And here I thought you had a vested interest in my happiness.”

Quark smiles back. “I like you, Garak. You’re a heavy drinker and unlike your predecessor, you have a flair for color. As far as I’m concerned, Bashir’s loss is my gain.” He turns to shoot Rom a dirty look. “Shouldn’t you be repairing holosuite two?”

Rom hops to attention. “Yes, Brother!”

Once he’s out of hearing range, Quark rolls his eyes. “What did I do to deserve that idiot?” he mutters and leaves to serve other customers.

Garak looks across the bar. His eyes drift from one patron to the next until settling on the subject of their discussion. He’s done his best to avoid Doctor Bashir, but aboard a space station of this size, they’ve already run into each other. Twice. The first instance came when one of Garak’s customers collapsed in anaphylactic shock. From a tainted jumja stick, of all things. Bashir had ignored Garak as he treated his patient on the shop’s floor. When Garak asked if there was anything he could do to help, Bashir dismissed the offer with cool professionalism, as if Garak were any other nosey bystander.

When they’d passed in the Replimat days later, however, Bashir abandoned all pretense of professionalism to favor him with an icy glare. Garak met it with his best, most insincere smile.

Now Bashir sits at a far table, flanked by Major Kira and Lieutenant Dax, pushing food around his plate as his companions do most of the talking. The lighting is too dark to read the movement of their lips.

Taking his drink, Garak joins his energy with the station’s. Once his presence is fully withdrawn, he weaves between tables, hidden in plain sight. As usual, no one seems to take notice of his approach.

“You have to accept that he’s gone,” Dax is saying between bites of leafy salad. “I know it’s hard, but it’s for the best. One of the biggest taboos in Trill society is reassociation. When a joined Trill dies, we sever all ties with our past lives. Our old loves, our families. Everything.”

“That sounds rather drastic,” Bashir says.

“After what happened with you and Deral,” says Kira, “I’d think you’d want to hang on to love wherever you can find it.”

Dax shakes her head. “If anything, that experience taught me the importance of letting go. There’s no point in putting yourself through that kind of pain. I’m not the same person Curzon was. And Garak isn’t Pela, Julian.”

“This isn’t remotely the same thing!” Kira cuts in. She grabs Bashir’s wrist as she makes her appeal. “Listen to me, Bashir. Serot isn’t dead. He’s in there somewhere. You know it, I know it.”

Bashir stares down at his unfinished meal, a shadow of the brash man who had shouted at him so passionately only two weeks ago. “Even if that were true, Garak hates me.”

“So what? Everyone’s hated you at some point.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“What else are you going to do, give up? You owe it to Serot to get through to him. Can you imagine how he must feel, locked away and powerless? You’re a doctor. Do something!”

“Kira!” Dax says. “I can’t believe you!”

The table descends into arguing. Despite the illuminating tidbit on Trill society, it’s a dull conversation, made irrelevant by the fact that Garak doesn’t intend to cooperate with any attempts to revive his counterpart. He moves away, letting the table slip into his periphery as he wanders through the bar. There. Someone just mouthed the word _Dominion._ Garak makes his way toward a pair of Bajorans.

He’s only there a few minutes before the topic—trade routes—veers into a discussion of the weather on Bajor’s Ducrain Province. “Uncomfortably hot,” both agree. Garak drifts from one table to another until he catches sight of Commander Sisko on the upper level, playing a multi-tiered board game with another Starfleet officer. Sisko strokes his beard, focused on the array of pieces. Some human variety of kotra? This he has to see. Garak begins ascending the stairs.

“Serot?”

Garak freezes in place. That he’s been seen is the first shock. But it’s the voice—uncertain, quiet—that keeps him pinned down and motionless.

It can’t be.

The man’s voice calls from behind him, drawing closer. “Serot.”

Garak turns, anticipation thrumming in his chest as he searches the crowd for the face he’s been waiting so long to see again. But it isn’t to be found. Instead he spots an El-Aurian man smiling hesitantly at him. El-Aurians are notoriously perceptive; is that how he’d seen through Garak’s stealth? There’s a familiar quality to that smile, a shyness he’s seen countless times. As Garak examines the attractive expanse of the man’s face, the inkling solidifies into a recognition that takes him back to the Pit.

Pythas. Pythas Lok.

The man closes the distance and takes Garak’s hands. “Yes, Elim,” he says in Kardasi. He leans in, warm breath tickling Garak’s ear, and whispers, “Gideric, while we’re in public.”

Garak pulls back and stares at him. Past the smooth skin, his eyes are the same. Older, but the same. Much as Mila’s had been.

This is a new level of unnerving.

“I see you don’t remember,” Pythas says, back to a conversational volume, switching to Standard. Still holding Garak’s hand, he leads him to a more isolated table in the back of the bar. Garak has no choice but to follow. “I’m a trader,” he explains. “You and I did business together during the Occupation. We became friends.”

The words are a muddle. He needs to be sitting down for this. Garak takes the closest chair and, lowering himself into its cushion, manages to find his voice. “Why?”

“I heard you were out of prison.” Pythas gives him a pointed glance. “I came as soon as I could.”

Garak smiles, appreciating the hidden layer of meaning behind the statement even as he notices the evasion. _Prison,_ indeed! It’s difficult, looking at Pythas this way, with his alien coloration, sheen of perspiration, and facial hair. This must be what Mila felt when she saw _him_. Garak forces his eyes to never waver from Pythas’ delicate features. “That wasn’t what I was asking,” he says.

“This is a rare sight. Elim Garak, unsettled.”

“While I’m usually the first to value your sense of humor, sadly I’m not in the mood. Tell me, what happened? Who sent you? Why _this_ form?”

“Elim, I haven’t seen you—the _real_ you—in over a decade.” Pythas reaches beneath the table and covers Garak’s hand with his own. “Please, can’t we talk about something else?”

His hand is a comfort, and Garak relaxes beneath its warmth as the words sink in. It’s Garak he wants, then. Not his counterpart. Garak turns his hand until they’re pressing palms. The wrongness of the situation continues to nag at him, but he can wait for an answer. Patience, after all, is one of Garak's strengths. He inclines his head. “My dear, you know how I feel about good conversation.”

“Then let me buy you dinner.”

Pythas calls for a waiter. Quark swoops in at once, depositing a pair of menus with a flourish. “Well, I see you two are reunited again. See, Gideric? What’d I tell you? I said he’d come around eventually.”

Pythas’ face folds into a mask.

Garak looks between them, his smile all teeth. “Is that so?”

“It’s all about persistence,” Quark boasts, clearly about to launch into his approach on winning a mate. Then he catches the threat in Pythas’ eyes and falters. “But who cares what I think? I’ll, uh, give you gentlemen a minute to decide.”

The Ferengi backs away, giving Garak an unobscured view over Pythas’ shoulder. Across the bar, Bashir is staring at them with the wide-eyed, horrified expression of a man watching two starships collide. If Garak is interpreting Quark’s careless innuendo correctly, Pythas had been romantically pursuing his counterpart for some time. And he hadn’t been subtle about his intentions, either, if Bashir’s reaction is anything to go by.

Garak gives the doctor a pleasant nod. Bashir scowls and ducks away, disappearing out of sight just as Pythas turns to follow the line of Garak’s attention.

They share dinner in customary silence, looking at each other between leisurely bites. Garak lowers his eyes as he takes in Pythas’ new form. The strip of dark hair over his upper lip is a curiosity. Would it be soft to the touch, or coarse? How extensive were his alterations?

“I admit,” Garak says presently, “I’ve always wanted a Listener in my interrogation chamber.”

Pythas nudges his plate aside. “And if you found one?”

“I’d extract his most closely-guarded secrets.”

“That may prove difficult. El-Aurians look similar to humans, but they’re a stalwart species. Mentally and physically.”

“That’s half the appeal. I do enjoy a challenge.”

“As I remember, you always had odd tastes.”

Garak licks the last remnants of dessert from his spoon. “And as I remember, we agreed on Palandine.”

“We did.” Pythas glances around. “She took care of you for the first year. But you were too distrustful of Cardassians. It didn’t work. Then she was promoted, and . . . ”

“You volunteered in her place,” Garak supplies.

“Every six months.”

Although Pythas doesn’t say it and never will, Garak can read between the lines. Every six months, to go under Timot’s knife—transformed from Cardassian to El-Aurian and back again—year after year. It had been harrowing enough to undergo the process _once._

Garak reaches out and cups Pythas’ cheek in one hand. “My dear.”

Pythas looks up, and the weariness and pain washes over his face. “I missed you,” he whispers, too quietly to hear, but from this distance Garak can read his lips perfectly.

So many years. Checking on him, seeing to his needs as a professional, while to Garak he was no one but his friend the El-Aurian trader. Garak shakes his head, touched and humbled by the sacrifice. It almost erases the sting of knowing Pythas was chasing his counterpart all the while. Some indiscretions can be forgiven, in light of extenuating circumstances.

A Ferengi waiter reaches between them to clear the dishes, jarring them apart with the clang of ceramic and metal. Pythas settles the bill and covers Garak’s hand again. “Let me walk you to your quarters.”

The Promenade is bustling with the first stirrings of the Peldor Festival. Many merchants are setting out festival-themed decorations, drawing in passersby and slowing the foot traffic. Garak makes the mental note to follow suit, lest he offend his Bajoran customers.

“It’s more elaborate every year since the Occupation ended,” Pythas explains, his eyes scanning ahead through the crowd. His hand finds the small of Garak’s back. “This way.”

With graceful movements, Pythas leads them through an opening in the throng. As the crowd thins, they slow to a stroll. Somewhere in the mess of people, they’ve picked up a tail. Pythas’ arm snakes around Garak’s waist. He’s noticed, too.

As they continue down the corridors, Garak makes small talk, carrying the conversation while Pythas listens. They lose the tail in the turbolift. “It’s a pity,” Garak says, pausing at a viewport to admire the starscape. “The Taluvian constellation would look magnificent this time of year.” Now that he knows what to look for, however, he can identify Cardassia’s star. He glances over, about to point it out, and blinks in surprise as he finds Pythas smiling at him with open fondness.

The tail has caught up with them. Wordlessly, they resume their stroll. Garak has to give Bashir credit: he’s getting better. If Garak wasn’t an Order operative, his pursuit might’ve gone unnoticed. When they reach his door, Garak stops and clasps his hands behind his back. “Here we are,” he says.

Pythas leans close. “May I kiss you?”

Garak hesitates. Bashir is most certainly watching. Exhibitionism has never been Garak’s style, but perhaps he can make an exception in this case. Suppressing the urge to check for unwanted eyes, Garak takes Pythas’ face between his hands and kisses him slowly. Pythas responds immediately, pulling Garak against his slender frame, and Garak can feel his desperation in the eager press of his lips, weighted by a dozen years of denial. It sweeps Garak along until they’re both clinging to each other, breathless and skirting impropriety.

Pythas groans in his throat and Garak feels the unsubtle jab of El-Aurian arousal against his hip.

Garak breaks away. Wiping his mouth, he keys the door controls and, taking Pythas by the arms, steps back into the room.

Once the door closes behind them, Pythas does a sweep of his quarters while Garak waits for his assessment. Satisfied that the room is secure, Pythas returns to Garak’s side and kisses him again. The whiskers are soft, pleasant. They tickle Garak’s lips. If he shuts his eyes, it’s almost the same—Pythas’ scent, the strength of his nimble hands unfastening buttons.

Then Pythas’ fingers brush the skin of Garak’s neck, snapping him back into the incongruity of the moment. But Pythas leans in, sucking and gently biting at his ridgeless neck without hesitation, and Garak shivers with renewed desire. When Pythas reaches the closure of Garak’s pants, he asks, “May I?”

Garak stifles a laugh at the question. This is the second time he’s asked permission to take what’s already his. “I should warn you,” Garak begins, squeezing the hand to fend off the reaction that’s sure to come, “my anatomy is . . . eclectic.”

Pythas shakes his head and pushes Garak into the nearest chair. He strips Garak of his remaining clothes with an eerie, uncharacteristic reverence and drinks in the sight of his exposed body. There’s no revulsion, only admiration. “Relax,” Pythas murmurs, dipping his head, and holds his breath.

Garak keeps his eyes on the ceiling. When Pythas’ fingers skim over the arteries of his inner thighs, an errant thought flitters to the forefront of his mind. Perhaps Tain is behind this. Oh, it’s a _distinct_ possibility. It wouldn’t be the first time that Tain tried to kill him this way. There had been that lovely Denobulan woman several years ago, the one who had seduced him too eagerly, too soon after Garak had “reinterpreted” one of Tain’s orders. Tain knew his tastes; she was cultured, sharp-tongued. But not fast enough. Garak crushed the promazine between her teeth before she reached his lips.

He had returned to Tain the following day for his next assignment. Neither of them spoke of the transgression, nor the failed assassination attempt. Garak’s survival had earned Tain’s forgiveness. It was, after all, part of the agreement.

_Do you really think Pythas came all this way, endured another surgery, for your benefit?_

If Tain wants to send Pythas after him, Garak decides as he runs his fingers through Pythas’ soft, curling hair, then he’s chosen his assassin well. Garak won’t kill Pythas. Not to save his own life, at least.

Garak gently pushes Pythas away and leads him to the bed. There, he frees Pythas of his tunic, revealing more scaleless, brown-hued skin, and rubs the center of his chest where his chula should be. Pythas sighs and rests his head on Garak’s shoulder.

Garak braces himself for the stab of a blade, the quick eroding fire of a disruptor blast. Pythas never took pleasure in suffering. He’ll make it fast and relatively painless. But Pythas only trails kisses across his skin, and Garak begins to wonder if perhaps he was mistaken.

Then again, best to err on the side of caution.

Pythas doesn’t protest when Garak binds his wrists with the bedsheets, nor does he resist when Garak ties them to the headboard. It’s as if he’ll do anything, bear any indignity if it means them being united again. Their bodies fit together differently, but in the fever pitch of his own need Garak forgets about Pythas’ mammalian configuration and focuses only on making love to him.

“You left me,” Pythas whispers, voice choked. His heels dig into Garak’s backside, pulling him down, skin against hot skin. “You have no idea, Elim. All those years, and you didn’t want me.”

“ _Shh,”_ Garak soothes, kissing Pythas on his cheeks, his eyelids, his jawline.

“You didn’t want me.”

“Dear Pythas, I’m here.” Garak drives his hips forward to punctuate his words, and they both moan. Oh, yes, that’s perfect. “I’m here,” he says, smiling, and kisses him again. “How can you believe I don’t want you?”

“You’re—a practiced liar.”

_He has you there, Elim._

“Mm. So are you.” He’ll have to endeavor to convince him. Garak shifts his weight and redoubles his efforts, muscle memory finding a familiar rhythm past their mismatched bodies, striking past the stranger staring back at him, to the core of the man he knows.

Soon Pythas is gasping beneath him, writhing in his bonds and crying, “yes, yes,” as they rock frantically. Close, Garak sinks his teeth into Pythas’ shoulder, drawing a yelp of pain, and bites him again until the room is filled with his howling.

Then Garak offers his own neck. The answering bite is sharp, piercing, and Garak shouts in surprise. It hurts far, far more than he remembered. Even as Pythas kisses the spot and whispers smug apologies, the bite continues to throb.

Afterward, Garak unties his wrists. As they catch their breath, curled together as they’ve done countless times, Garak becomes acutely aware that their skin, moist with sweat and fluids, is sticking together. Garak makes a noise of disgust and peels himself off. He gets up.

Pythas catches his wrist. “No. It’s nice.”

Garak stares at him. _Nice?_ How? In what demented universe? Garak frees himself and kisses the palm of Pythas’ hand. “I’ll only be a moment,” he says.

“Fastidious as always.”

“You wouldn’t have me any other way.”

They were never much for pillow talk, and Garak can’t imagine Pythas chatting into the night with his other partners. Tonight isn’t any different. Garak keeps busy with his own thoughts, analyzing Pythas’ earlier reactions, forming lists of questions and ways to circumvent the likely deflections. Beside him, Pythas drowses. Garak recalls that last argument on Cardassia, the cruelties Pythas had shouted at his back, and shudders.

 _Enough._ It’s over now. All of it. Pythas is here now to bring him home.

Garak drifts asleep, half falling out of a bed intended for one, and wakes atop Pythas, one arm hooked around his neck in a chokehold.

Pythas taps his elbow, wheezing, “Elim.”

Garak blinks rapidly. He can feel the adrenaline rushing through him, the pounding of his heart, the dampness of Pythas’ skin between them, the tap of his fingers growing more insistent. But Garak’s arm only tightens its hold.

“Elim, Elim, wake up. It’s just me. It’s just me.”

Garak lets go and scrambles across the bed. He gapes at Pythas in shock. “What happened?”

“You,” Pythas gasps, sitting up to rub at his throat, “were choking me. Obviously.”

Garak shakes his head. “I don’t—” He’s never done anything like this before. How could he lose control so _thoroughly?_ “Pythas,” he whispers, tentatively reaching for his shoulder, “I’m sorry.”

To his surprise, Pythas laughs. “You weren’t doing a good job of it.” He turns and strokes the wrinkled bridge of Garak’s nose. In the light of the bed’s headboard, his eyes are bright with fondness, and Garak feels disappointment sinking in the pit of his stomach. It supplants the horror at his own subconscious brutality. “It’s all right, Elim,” he says, patting the blankets with a wry smile. “Come back to bed. It’s just me.”

 _Just you,_ Garak despairs as he sinks back beneath the covers, nose pressed to the fall of Pythas’ hair. _Spare me more fools in love with my simulacrum._

Pythas wakes him the next morning with under-the-breath muttering about the state of his joints and the perils of getting old. When Garak throws off the covers, he finds his flesh bruised and sore with bite marks. To his delight, Pythas is far worse for wear, though his skin is better at concealing it. Garak caresses a nasty mark decorating his shoulder.

Pythas shivers. “Our bodies aren’t made for Cardassian lovemaking.”

“A temporary setback,” Garak agrees, kissing the spot.

Pythas pulls away to retrieve his tunic from the floor. “I should get to work,” he says. “That Ferengi expects me to set up by 0800.”

Garak watches him dress. This is unexpected. Granted, Pythas was always dedicated to his fronts, and his eye for detail was well-known throughout the Order. It was why he’d earned a reputation on par with Garak’s. But to keep it up now, when they’re so close to leaving, is an exercise in absurdity.

Circling the bed, Pythas takes Garak’s chin in his hand. “Meet me at my ship tonight. It’s the Orion freighter.”

That cold, enveloping dread has returned in full force. It could be nothing; Pythas could simply be preparing, finalizing the details for their departure tonight. Garak keeps his suspicions to himself. He turns them over in his mind throughout the morning.

Business is slow, with only a trio of Bajoran women perusing his wares. Two have been flipping through the same rack of clothing for the last half hour, gossiping all the while, leaving the third to lecture him on the virtues of the Bajoran religion as he fetches garment after inadequate garment. “Too big,” she says, thrusting a fistful of wrinkled blouse through the dressing room’s curtain. “Don’t you have anything form-fitting?”

“I’ll see what I can find.” Garak tosses the blouse in the reject pile to be pressed later and returns to the racks. He’s doing a perfunctory glance-through—it doesn’t matter, he’ll be off this woebegone station by the end of the day—when one of the chattering women says something that catches his attention.

“I don’t want to question the Emissary, but I was expecting a shipment of Byzatium tallow, and he isn’t even letting them dock for Prophets-know how long while those Cardassians are here. It’s blatant favoritism, don’t you think?”

“I don’t see how,” says the second woman.

“I’m trying to run a business, and the Byzatium transport was here first. The least he could do is let them drop their cargo—”

Garak hurries to the back room and flips a switch on a panel. He doesn’t notice a difference, but the collective gasp from inside the shop tells him the device is working precisely as intended. “What’s that _noise?”_ cries one woman as the third stumbles from the fitting room, hands over her ears.

“It seems there’s been an argon leak,” Garak calls, tilting his head in apology. “An engineering team is on the way, but I’m afraid we’ll have to evacuate the shop.”

“Argon?” the religious fanatic wails. “Is that dangerous?”

“Why don’t you go to the infirmary," Garak says as he herds them out. "Just to be on the safe side. I'm sure Doctor Bashir would be happy to answer _all_ your questions.”

They seem to find that a marvelous idea. The Bajorans hurry off, Bashir's problem now, allowing Garak to shut off the alarm and call the lights.

He’s nearly reached Ops to intercept the likely location of his quarry when the door to the wardroom slides open. Commander Sisko emerges, followed by Gul Dvoll and Constable Odo. Garak slips out of sight. They’re heading in his direction.

Garak waits until they’ve reached his position, then falls into step beside them. “Lurin!” he greets effusively, and feels a burst of satisfaction when she bristles at the sound of his voice. “What a pleasant surprise!”

“Elim,” Dvoll says, matching his syrupy tone. “I was told you were . . . back.”

“Mister Garak,” Sisko cuts in. “How did you get in here?”

“I wouldn’t worry about it, Commander,” Dvoll says. “I’m sure he was only lost.”

Garak smiles. He makes a show of looking her up and down, taking in the differences. Extra lines frame her eyes and mouth, but she’s aged admirably. The benefits of highborn genetics. “It seems,” Garak says, “that even you were unable to escape the ravages of time.”

She releases a breezy, musical laugh. “That’s what happens when one does more than hem pants and eat spice pudding all day.” Sisko and Odo exchange a glance, no doubt puzzled by their interaction. She turns to them. “Would you gentlemen mind if we excused ourselves for a moment?”

On Sisko’s nod, Dvoll leads Garak down the corridor, out of earshot. Garak stares at her elegant, beautifully-scaled profile, and waits.

“I see Lok beat me here,” she begins, her voice one register above a whisper. “Whatever he tells you, don’t go along with him.”

That is most distressing to hear. “And why is that?”

“I don’t have time to explain the past twelve years to you. Not now. Suffice it to say, following him will only make your situation worse. He’s in no position to help you.”

“I see. And you are?”

She grabs his shoulder. “The Maquis have the _Defiant,_ Garak. Sisko and I must go to Cardassia immediately. I swear to you, when this is resolved, I’ll come back and we’ll talk properly.”

“That’s not good enough!” Garak hisses, even as he recognizes he has no choice in the matter. If she’s right and Pythas is useless to him, then she’s his best, last remaining hope of returning home.

Inclining her head, Dvoll raises her hand between them. Despite his reservations, the gesture of friendship mollifies him. Garak presses his palm to hers. She smiles. “Until then,” she says.

Garak watches her double back down the corridor. Sisko and the constable will want to know the nature of their relationship, but he’s confident she’ll tell them the prettiest lies. As always.

The _Prakesh_ is gone within the hour, leaving him behind with Pythas Lok and the echo of her warning. When Garak reaches the Orion freighter at the appointed time that evening, Pythas is waiting for him in the airlock. He’s managed to fill the small ship to the brim with a collection of knick knacks—books, jewelry, statues, exotic animals, ancient timepieces—an assortment of flotsam gathered from every cellar in the galaxy.

Garak tastes the air and regrets it. Beside him, Pythas seems undisturbed by the stench.

The only surface untouched by clutter is the bed, and Pythas wastes no time guiding him to its musty mattress. Garak keeps his eyes closed as Pythas explores every dull inch of his body. He has no interest in returning the favor, but Pythas doesn’t seem to mind. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs as his narrow hips settle between Garak’s thighs. Garak begins to argue. He’s ready to remind Pythas that he’d _never_ found Bajorans compelling and this _isn’t_ his real face, but then Pythas is entering him and Garak surrenders to the aching need to be filled. He abandons the recriminations for later.

Pythas moves as if lost in a daydream. What Garak needs is for Pythas to take him with all the rough desperation of the Wilderness, like all those evenings coupled in the shadows, making the most of it, dreading the next order that would send them spinning apart again. He wants to solidify the pact they made decades ago. But Pythas cradles Garak in his arms and kisses him tenderly.

When Garak tries to speed things along, growling in frustration, Pythas stills him. “Please,” he says. “I’ve waited so long for you.”

 _I wonder_ , Garak thinks, _which one of us is he talking to?_

For the following two days, while Garak awaits Dvoll’s return, Pythas remains dedicated to his merchant’s pretense, manning his makeshift storefront at Quark’s from morning to evening with breaks only for meals. He gives Garak the access codes to his ship, a show of trust that Garak exploits by sifting through its contents. There’s nothing beneath the piles of worthless junk beside more worthless junk.

Tucked cleverly within a hidden panel, Garak finds a stash of small arms. In the refresher: a case filled with vials of swirling pink gas. The sight of it sends Garak into a simmering rage, and it takes all his self-control not to crush every single canister.

The ship’s computer is the real challenge. Its encryption is highly sophisticated, and Garak has to grudgingly acknowledge that cracking it is beyond his outmoded skills.

As for his reticent companion, when Garak manages to segue their brief conversations in order to probe for information, Pythas deflects each attempt with the skill of a trained operative. There will be no answers forthcoming. Not until he can convince Pythas to supply them.

“He’s odd, this new man of yours,” Bottaquey says over drinks, glancing across the bar to where Pythas is diligently working. “Is he rich?”

“My dear!” Garak exclaims. “I’m disappointed. You must have a very negative opinion of me if you think I’m nothing but a lowly opportunist.”

“Only pragmatic. You aren’t the type to fall for anyone so quickly. Or maybe you are. I haven’t decided.” Bottaquey rests their chin in their hands as they consider. “You’re after his ship, aren’t you? Don’t deny it. I know you want off this station.”

“If I were so desperate for a ship,” Garak says, “I’d steal the _Defiant._ It seems easy enough.”

“That might work, but you’d need a crew to fly it.”

“That’s why I have you, isn’t it?”

Bottaquey’s grin widens. “You’re not stupid enough to befriend me for my piloting skills, much less my rotten security clearance. I couldn’t get you into the supply closet.”

“Then,” Garak says, “that must mean my intentions with you are pure.”

“And _I’m_ not stupid enough to believe that.” Bottaquey finishes off their Rigelian bloodwine and stands. “I have to go.”

Garak doesn’t bother concealing his disappointment. “So soon?”

“I need to be back on duty in twenty minutes,” they explain, tugging down the front of their uniform. “I have an evaluation with Lieutenant Dax, hence . . . ” Bottaquey gestures to the empty glasses littering the table. They hesitate, then blurt out, “If you do leave, will you say goodbye first?”

“I wouldn’t miss it for all the kanar in the Union.”

They beam widely at that. He wishes Bottaquey luck and turns his attention to the surrounding bar patrons. While the ensign was present, Garak had been careful to ignore one particular corner of the establishment, but now there’s nothing stopping his eyes from wandering to the table where Doctor Bashir is having dinner with a man who has—there’s no way around it—the man has a _transparent_ skull. The plates have since been cleared away, and both are leaning forward, lost in conversation.

It seems to be going well.

When Garak glances down, he finds his hand clenched around the glass of Aldebaran whiskey with white-knuckled tension. How interesting. “That bothers you, does it?” he murmurs under his breath.

There’s no response, as expected.

Garak loosens his grip on the glass and downs its contents. When he turns back to Bashir’s table several minutes later, the doctor is alone, nursing his drink. The date must be over, then. Rising to his feet, Garak smoothes back his hair and weaves through the tables until he’s standing behind him. Bashir continues staring down at his hands, unaware.

“Good evening,” Garak says.

Bashir starts, spilling his ale. “Garak! Bloody hell, don’t _do_ that!”

“How clumsy of you.” Garak retrieves a handkerchief from a suit pocket and dabs at the front of Bashir’s uniform, ignoring the way he sputters in discomfiture. He lets the touch linger a little too long. “There, much better.”

“Thanks,” Bashir mutters, sounding anything _but_ thankful. “I heard you and Gul Dvoll had a friendly chat this morning.”

“Is that what you heard?”

“Isn’t that what I just—” Bashir cuts himself off with a scowl. “Never mind. From the way Odo described it, it looked like you two knew each other.”

Garak can’t resist. “Oh? Your lover didn’t tell you about that?”

“Apparently it slipped his mind.” Bashir takes another gulp of his ale. From the flush of red across his cheeks, Garak guesses this is his fourth or fifth.

Garak nods to the empty seat across the table. “That seemed to go well,” he says.

“What? Oh. Captain Boday. One of Jadzia’s bright ideas.”

“And?”

“It was rather nice, being able to see inside a person’s head for a change.” He shoots Garak a significant look.

“Will there be a second date?”

Bashir tenses. “What do you care?” he snaps.

“I don’t.”

“Hoping I’ll sleep with him and lose interest in you? For your information, Mister Garak, I don’t fall into bed with every man who has a passing fancy in me.” Bashir smiles without humor. “And neither did Serot.”

 _Ah, a disparaging remark about my virtue!_ Crude, but he can work with that. Bashir takes another sip of ale, lips twitching upward, evidently pleased with himself. Garak’s general policy is not to kiss and tell, but rules are made to be broken. “You must mean Gideric,” Garak says. “An oversight I’ve remedied. Now your former lover knows precisely what he was missing.”

Bashir clenches his jaw. “Fuck you, Garak.”

Garak smiles pleasantly as nearby patrons take notice. “We really should work on expanding your vocabulary.”

“You don’t like my vocabulary, do you?” Bashir stands with a wobble. “I thought I was doing you a favor by keeping it simple, given how you’re still learning Federation Standard.”

Still learning? _Still_ learning? He’s been told on _numerous occasions_ that his Standard is very good! “I beg your pardon. How many languages do _you_ speak?”

“That’s beside the point.” Bashir advances on him, close enough that Garak can smell the alcohol on his breath. “I know, why don’t I explain this in a language you can understand?”

Garak widens his eyes a fraction. He glances around. Suddenly he’s regretting doing this in public. He shifts his stance and says, “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me,” Bashir hisses back in Kardasi, and Garak feels a surge of pleasure at hearing his language from his mouth. “You lowborn, filthy, malignant . . . sub-Cardassian pustule of excrement!”

Garak laughs. _Pustule of excrement_ doesn’t quite work in Kardasi, but it’s an evocative term nonetheless. He’s about to make his riposte, but Bashir doesn’t wait for it. He turns and flees the bar, pushing past curious bystanders without a backward glance.

Garak feels his laughter die in his throat. What an unfortunate ending to a promising argument.

It fouls his mood later in the evening, as he lies in bed, his head pillowed against the quick rise and fall of Pythas’ chest. This is insane. He's insane for being here, especially after what Palandine said. If Pythas had any intention of taking him back to Cardassia, he would’ve done it by now.

Garak lifts his head to examine his companion. Pythas cracks open an eye and smiles at him. This is more affection than Garak’s received in the course of their relationship, and yet—what he felt before, that ember of passion that was never hot enough, even _that_ has gone cold. He feels its absence deep in his chest.

 _This is your fault,_ Garak accuses his silent counterpart. Robbing him of Cardassia wasn’t good enough, no. He had to take this from him, too.

Garak rolls onto his stomach to flip through a battered volume of Vulcan short stories. The bed shifts behind him as Pythas gets up and begins to dress. Garak watches him from the corner of his eye.

“I do enjoy seeing you naked in my bed,” Pythas says. He kisses Garak on the nose and, still smiling, turns to rearrange his stock. Somehow, he’s acquired even more clutter since last night. He’s so absorbed in the task, he doesn’t seem to notice Garak pulling on his clothes.

Soundlessly, Garak emerges from the bed and trains his Bajoran pistol on his back. “You like this,” he says.

Pythas glances over his shoulder. His eyes flick to the barrel of the disruptor, then up to Garak’s face. “I enjoy traveling the galaxy without other species looking upon me with fear.”

“Really, I always found that reaction comforting.”

Pythas returns to fiddling with his mountain of junk. “Believe whatever lie you want, Elim.”

“I was never ashamed to be Cardassian.”

“No, I suppose not. If it wasn’t for your misstep at the end, we’d be holding a parade in your honor across the Tarlak sector. You should be proud. The information you supplied the Order helped many people to their deaths.”

Garak feels a slither of disquiet run down his spine. “What did you do, Pythas?” he whispers.

With a soft inhale of breath, Pythas steps close, hands where Garak can see them. “Five years ago, when the Occupation was on its last legs, Tain ordered me to activate you. I’d been waiting for so long. Elim, Elim, you have no idea how elated I was. I stood in your shop with the desegranine in my hand and I watched you work. There was a bruise—” Pythas brushes the skin beneath Garak’s right eye and works his jaw, anger renewed at the memory. “One of our own people! You didn’t deserve to be treated like that, much less by Central Command scum. I wanted to find the man responsible, and I would’ve killed him, but you _begged_ me not to get involved. You said you could take care of yourself. It was incredible, Elim. He had all your poise and strength, but none of your . . . ” Pythas trails off.

“My what?” Garak says.

“Your aversion to happiness. You _were_ happy there, Elim. I couldn’t take that away from you.”

And he’d condemned them both in the process _._ “That wasn’t your choice to make!”

“Then you and Tain are in agreement. He severely reprimanded me for the lapse. There was only a small window for what he had planned, and we missed it.”

“He should’ve had you _executed_.”

“He expelled me, Elim.”

Garak closes his eyes. _He’s in no position to help you,_ Palandine had said.

“To be honest, I was relieved. I know you won’t understand, but—” Pythas waves his hands to encompass the expanse of his ship, his smile self-deprecating. “You’re welcome to come with me.”

“And what shall we do, my dear? Sell antiques and measure inseams?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Why? Because we’d have each other?”

Pythas shrugs.

“Is that all you have to say?” Garak sneers as he mimics the helpless, pathetic gesture. “I expected better from you than naïve sentiment and an ill-conceived plot to run away together.”

Pythas laughs. It’s a bitter, pained sound. He wipes at his eyes and shakes his head.

“I should’ve seen this coming,” Garak continues. He jabs Pythas in the chest with the disruptor so hard he winces. “You are a _fool._ ”

“I didn’t _want_ this.”

Garak rolls his eyes to the ceiling. “So you told me many times—”

“Not that,” Pythas says. He looks around the cramped, claustrophobic ship. He licks his lips and whispers, “I never wanted to join the Order.”

The admission takes Garak aback. Hadn’t Pythas told him once, long ago, that what was good for Elim Garak was good for Pythas Lok? Even if what he’s saying is true and not revisionism born of weakness and regret, there’s nothing Garak can do about it. He isn’t about to let Pythas blame _him_ for his own mistakes.

“I’ve only ever been a satellite to you,” Pythas says, “and you only orbit one thing.”

“Cardassia.”

“Enabran Tain.”

“The Order _is_ Cardassia, Pythas. I won’t abandon either one.”

“I’m so tired of your boundless capability for self-sacrifice! I’d hoped you would’ve outgrown it by now. Cardassia doesn’t deserve your loyalty, Elim.”

“Mm.” Garak glances out the ship’s viewport, thoughtful. “You told me that just the other day.”

“Elim.” Pythas looks up, his eyes shining. “That was twelve years ago.”

Ah. So it was.

Garak looks at Pythas, with his stranger’s face and crumpled, broken expression, and can’t think of anything to say. Some errant part of his brain—possibly one of the recesses Pela has made his playground—recalls the saccharine word _imzadi_. It makes him unfathomably sad.

There’s nothing left for him to do. Garak tucks the disruptor away and leaves.

He doesn’t remember the walk back to his quarters. By the time he retrieves the half-empty bottle of kanar from behind the bed and begins to pour, the magnitude of the situation has settled over him. _Good work, Elim_ , he berates himself as the kanar fills the glass.

What a terrible mistake he’s made. Pythas had been his one anchor, the _one_ stability in his life that wasn’t Mila or Tain, and now it’s gone. His one tangible escape off this station. _If you keep rejecting every opportunity that doesn’t meet your standards, soon you’ll have nothing left but tatters._

If he returns now, surely Pythas will accept his apology. Garak scowls and downs the kanar. Ridiculous. The man he loved is buried under layers of mammalian skin and twelve years of delusion. Whoever he is, he _isn’t_ Pythas Lok. Garak has already accepted a great many unpleasant truths, and this is just one more.

What had the Trill called it? Reassociation. And who is Garak to argue with over three hundred years of life experience?

Garak takes a deep breath and holds it. He needs to let Pythas go.

He refills the glass.

The comm beeps, interrupting his thoughts. “Bashir to Garak.”

Garak considers ripping out the terminal and hurling it against the wall. He slaps the controls. “What do you _want_ , Doctor?”

There’s a pause over the line, followed by, “Catch you at a bad time, eh, Garak?”

“It’s always a bad time with you.”

“Well, that’s what I’m calling about. I wanted to apologize. For earlier.”

“Apology accepted. Now I bid you a—”

“At my quarters,” Bashir interrupts. “If you don’t mind.”

That gets Garak’s attention. “You want me to come to your quarters?”

“That’s right.”

“So you can apologize in person?”

“Yes.”

“Doctor, I’m not an expert on human customs, but shouldn’t you perform your apology by coming to _me?”_

Bashir sighs loudly. “For crying out loud, Garak, does everything have to be a chore with you? If you must know, I have something I want to show you. It’s a bit of a surprise.”

This is some kind of trap. Garak is sure of it, with every fiber of instinct crying out in warning. But he can only guess at what form it will take. Perhaps Bashir intends to assail him with another pitiful seduction attempt, or murder him. Which could it be? If it’s nothing more than an honest apology, he’s going to be greatly disappointed.

“Well, Garak? Are you coming or not?”

“Very well, Doctor. I’m on my way.”

“Good. I had to move quarters after you left. I’m on deck—”

“I know where you live,” Garak says and cuts the comm.

Curiosity piqued, Garak indulges in a final glass of kanar and makes his way to the other side of the Habitat Ring. Bashir answers his door on the first ring with a wide, forced smile and an expansive gesture.

“Thank you for coming, Garak,” Bashir begins, ushering him inside.

His pleasant disposition is sending off more warnings, and Garak narrows his eyes at the sight of Bashir’s carefully coiffed hair before sliding down to his well-fitted tunic and slacks. No doubt his counterpart fashioned them as a gift. Yes, something is definitely wrong here.

Bashir’s new quarters are smaller, crowded with all the furniture he’s refused to have destroyed or sent to storage. As Garak looks around, the regnar emerges from the depths of his terrarium and scurries to the top of a branch, where he proceeds to raise one foot.

Garak smiles and presses his fingers to the glass.

“That’s odd,” Bashir says from behind him. “I’ve never seen him do that before. It’s almost like he recognized you.”

“Regnars may be blind, but they’re more perceptive than you or I.”

Bashir hovers closer. “Can I get you something to drink?”

As if he’d fall for such an artless ploy. “Oh, no, Doctor,” Garak says. “I don’t think so.”

“Have it your way,” Bashir says. Before Garak can turn around, Bashir presses a hypospray to his arm. It hisses as it pumps his bloodstream full of an unknown compound.

Garak opens his mouth in surprise. _Oh, how very—_

His legs give out.

As he blacks out, he feels those surprisingly strong arms catching him.

When Garak comes to, it’s with the pounding migraine of a thousand hangovers. His vision dances with resplendent color and he has to shut his eyes to fight nausea. Taking a breath, he concentrates on the configuration of his body. He’s kneeling on the floor, arms tied behind his back. Although his legs haven’t been restrained, he can’t move them. An electric tingle of fear shoots through him.

“Welcome back,” Bashir says from the left.

Garak blinks rapidly against the bright light. As his vision clears, he makes out Bashir standing beside the sofa. “Doctor,” he slurs. “I must . . . congratulate you for catching me off guard. I promise, I won’t underestimate you again.” Assuming he lives through this experience.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“What . . . did you give me?”

“A very powerful muscle relaxant. Nothing as bad as what you used on me. You should still be able to move, but it’ll take some effort. You have no idea how frightening that was, Garak.”

 _Powerful_ is an understatement. The drug is making him loopy, and he feels as if he’s floating. It’s difficult to concentrate. “You might be surprised,” he says.

Bashir gives him a peculiar look, then turns over a thin, curved device in his hands. “I swore to myself that I'd never use this damned thing again. But it’s the only way.”

The cold fear settles in the pit of Garak’s stomach. No. Is that—

“This, Garak, is the alphawave inducer I was telling you about.”

He tries to flex his fingers. They’re slow to respond to the command, but his hands curl into fists. Garak’s mind races. He needs to buy time. “How interesting,” Garak says. “Tell me, how does it work?”

The scientist in Bashir seems eager to explain its function. “It’s very simple. It increases your production of alphawaves.”

“I never would've guessed.”

Bashir purses his lips tartly. “At the right setting, it can simulate a state of hypnosis. It’s completely harmless, I promise. You won’t suffer any long-term effects. If all goes according to plan, I should be able to talk to Serot for a little while. Then you’ll be . . . back in charge again.”

“I admit, Doctor,” Garak says with genuine admiration, “I’m impressed by your deviousness.”

“I don’t have to do this, Garak,” Bashir pleads, taking a step closer with the alphawave inducer extended. “If you agree to come to the infirmary, if you let me have a look at you, we can stop this right now.”

Garak snorts. “No, I’m not about to give you permission to experiment on my mind. I’m fortunate your last incompetent foray didn’t leave me brain-dead.”

“Then I have no choice.”

Bashir is coming closer when Garak snaps, “Listen to me, Doctor, you’re not thinking clearly.”

“How can I, when you’ve taken the man I love _hostage!”_

“Whatever you do to me, it’ll only be a temporary solution—”

“I have to know if he’s all right!”

“Is that really worth sacrificing your principles as a physician?”

Bashir halts and looks down at the device. “Yes,” he says.

Well, so much for that.

Bashir is a mere foot away now. Garak stretches his spine and raises his chin in anticipation. Gingerly, Bashir kneels down to place the device on his forehead. Garak focuses his entire will on his muscles. As Bashir’s intent face draws closer, Garak brings his head down with all the force he can muster.

There’s a crack of bone against bone and Bashir collapses to the floor.

Unable to stop his forward momentum, Garak falls on top of him. Not the most dignified position, but it’ll have to do. Garak glares at the alphawave inducer where it lies several inches away on the carpet.

Garak hisses as a wave of pain overtakes him. That move did _not_ help the throbbing in his head. He’s too old for this, it seems. With a grunt of effort, Garak struggles to shift his weight off the human. If he’s fortunate, he can make his escape before Bashir revives. Albeit slowly. _You shouldn’t show such mercy to your captives, Doctor. You should’ve fully immobilized me when you had the chance._

There’s a groan from beneath him.

Garak tenses. How? He hit him with the full force of a Cardassian skull! How is this human _still_ conscious?

Bashir groans again and squints up at Garak. “Was that necessary?”

Garak shrugs as best he can. Their noses brush. “I thought so.”

“Well, you didn’t accomplish anything but give us both a splitting headache.” Bashir touches his nose and winces. His fingers come away streaked with red. Despite his failure, Garak takes some satisfaction in that. “Great,” Bashir mutters.

With some maneuvering, Bashir manages to push Garak up into a sitting position, careful to give Garak a wide berth this time. In a move that makes Garak cringe in sympathy for the poor abused tunic, Bashir dabs at his nose with a sleeve. Bleeding controlled, he retrieves the alphawave inducer from the floor and keys its controls. The device lights up.

Garak eyes it warily. “Think about what you’re doing, Doctor.”

“I already have. There’s an old saying on Earth: the ends justify the means.”

“Yes,” Garak says with a grim downturn of his lips. “We Cardassians have that one, too.”

“I had a feeling you would.” Bashir places the device on Garak’s forehead and presses a button.

Garak can hear it ominously whirring to life. This is it, then. Garak closes his eyes and pushes down the growing panic. When he speaks, his voice is calm. “Send Mister Pela my regards,” he says.

“I’ll be sure to do that. Count down from one hundred, please.”

Garak obeys, counting down in Kardasi, spitting out the words as his final, pathetic act of defiance.

He only gets to ninety-six.


	10. Chapter 10

Beyond death, there is nothing; only endless, dreamless sleep. It’s a belief supported by the too-frequent instances Garak has brushed against it. This isn’t any different. Reviving from Bashir’s induced death is like waking from catatonia. His consciousness comes online in stages, like lamps flickering one by one at the brink of dusk.

First: a haze of memory.

He’d been fighting with Pythas— _unpleasant, forget about it—_ storming out—his quarters, the kanar—then Bashir—

Bashir.

There’s muffled sniffling coming from the left. Then: the scent of singularly-unique-human masked beneath cologne. Garak opens one eye, then the second. He looks down. He’s on Bashir’s white sofa. Hands in his lap, unbound.

Movement in the corner. Beside him, Bashir wipes hurriedly at his face and sniffs as he struggles to compose himself.

Garak temporarily marks Bashir as a non-threat and reflexively feels at his forehead. He finds the skin smooth as ever, absent of mind-altering devices. Where did—ah, _there_. The alphawave inducer sits on the coffee table between two mugs, as harmless as a tea biscuit. Garak pats himself down. Not a button or article of clothing out of place. Although that hardly means anything; for all his faults, Bashir doesn’t strike him as the careless type.

At least that monstrous headache is gone. With the exception of a dryness in his mouth, he feels almost normal.

Garak clears his throat and addresses the air. “Computer, time?”

“The time is 25:43.”

Over two hours.

“I didn’t take advantage of you,” Bashir says, his voice rough with tears, “if that’s what you’re thinking. I—I didn’t even kiss him.”

That’s a lie; Garak can taste the human on his lips, inside his mouth. But Garak appreciates the attempt nonetheless. It saves him the bother of feigning offense. Besides, the less he knows about his counterpart’s activities while he was blissfully unaware, the better.

Reaching over, Garak takes the nearest mug and inspects the ochre liquid inside. “Well,” he says into the silence and takes a sip. The tea’s astringent flavor washes out the aftertaste.

Bashir’s drawn his long legs to his chest, resting his head on his knees like a castigated child. That regression should annoy Garak. His show of vulnerability should only stoke the fire of Garak’s outrage. Instead, Garak turns toward the human, peering closer. Bashir’s breathing is steadier now, but he only shakes his head at Garak’s unasked question, too upset for words.

This is certainly awkward. Garak glances to the door, pining for a quick exit. After a brief hesitation, he moves to put a hand on Bashir’s shoulder.

Bashir flinches away. “Please, it’s bad enough without you pitying me.”

“Very well.” Garak returns his hand to his lap. “I take it your reunion didn’t go as planned?”

“I can’t believe I did that,” Bashir mutters under his breath, more to himself than to Garak. “Even Serot thought I went too far, and he’s right. What is _wrong_ with me?” Bashir wipes his face and mumbles, “I’m sorry, Garak.”

“Now, now,” Garak chides. “There’s no need to spoil a perfectly good assault with a show of remorse.”

“A show of—Garak, how can you possibly—”

“Look at me, Doctor. See? I’ve suffered no harm. Besides losing a few hours I’d rather have devoted to Preloc, you’ve done no lasting damage to me. Your Starfleet commitment to non-malfeasance remains untarnished.”

“First of all, that’s not how it works, and secondly, you might not be disgusted with me, Garak, but I am.”

“Why? It isn’t as if our relationship could get any worse, hmm?”

“What I did was wrong! Setting aside how I might feel about you occupying Serot’s body, it was unethical and totally unconscionable to drug you and hold you against your will like that!”

“But,” Garak says, ignoring Bashir’s _infuriating_ claims about his body’s ownership, “what you learned was invaluable, and if you had to, you’d do it again.”

Bashir looks away and closes his eyes. There’s a hint of a slow, reluctant nod.

“Then I think we understand each other.” Garak deposits the mug back on the table and, standing, cheerfully adds, “If you like, you can consider this payback for the mishap a few weeks ago.”

Bashir doesn’t lift his chin from his knees, but his lips twitch upward. Good, he hasn’t lost his sense of humor yet.

“Did you pass along my message?” asks Garak.

“I did.” Bashir glances up. “Serot doesn’t like what you’ve done with his hair.”

Garak turns toward the wall where Falvan’s painting hangs and catches his reflection in its glass surface. His hair has come free of his careful grooming, strands loose and wild. How could anyone possibly find this attractive? Garak smoothes it back in place. Much better. While he’s here, perhaps he should take the painting along with him. Bashir couldn’t appreciate Falvan’s brilliance to the degree Garak does. It would be better in his own safe-keeping.

“It’d be well within your right to tell the Commander about this,” Bashir says, interrupting his thoughts.

If Garak were a smidge more vindictive and much less prideful, he might do just that. But telling the commander would require admitting that he—an agent of the Obsidian Order—had allowed himself to be duped by a Starfleet doctor. No, he’d much prefer if no one ever found out about this.

“In fact,” Bashir continues, “I should go over there right now and tell him myself.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Garak snaps. “As I already told you, Doctor, we’re even.”

“Are we, Garak? Cardassians don’t strike me as the type to forgive and forget.”

Garak pauses at the door. “Whoever said I intended to do either?” he says, and steps through.

 _Never let sentiment get in the way of your work,_ Garak repeats as his legs lead him down the corridor, the words of caution keeping time like a metronome, tick tick ticking, slowing until they’re swallowed by the inescapable, grave reality of what he must do next, and it’s an unfortunate set of circumstances, isn’t it; the doctor forced his hand by delving into his brain and doing who-knows-what with his counterpart, and although Bashir may swear regret, Garak knows better than to trust him—indeed, Bashir is far too unpredictable, and that in itself makes him dangerous—and he certainly isn’t foolish enough to believe that Bashir wouldn’t use the inducer again given the opportunity; no, he’ll have to kill Bashir as a survival imperative, and he better do it soon, before the good doctor can make any other rash moves against him, which leads Garak to his next obstacle: the issue of motive; after all, he’d be the first suspect if Bashir (young, relatively healthy) were to turn up dead, and Constable Odo is too good at his job to let any detail slip past, much less anything so obvious as their shared, documented animosity, and thus orchestrating an “accident” is out of the question—there are far too many unforeseen complications, too many eyes on Garak’s comings and goings—leaving him with one alternative, and it sings with elegant simplicity, forming watercolor masterpieces in Garak’s mind’s eye: the glistening casket draped in Starfleet blue, the epitaph carved with Federation poetic license while Sisko waxes on about tragedy and wasted potential; but, alas, no one will be surprised, given the magnitude of the doctor’s grief—

—and Bashir’s friends will offer Garak their tearful condolences—

—and Garak is certain he’s laughing—

—and perhaps staggering—

Sudden dizziness sets off a wave of panic, constricting Garak’s chest, narrowing his eyesight to a pinpoint. A second later, the pain splits his skull like an ax. Garak gasps and catches himself on the wall as he stumbles.

He recovers his balance just enough to dig his fingers into his temples. Every muddled thought scatters as the excruciating pain seizes his focus.

How?

Agony, bright and jagged.

_Bashir._

Throbbing, radiating fire.

He hisses through gritted teeth. The wire, the wire should be—

Then, like that, the pain is gone.

Garak’s relief is short lived. There’s a sensation of cold terror welling inside him, pooling beneath his breastbone where his heart races. It dries out his mouth and freezes his muscles in place like an animal caught in the gaze of a predator, and Garak knows his emotions well enough to recognize its foreign nature. Garak is well-versed in fear, but not like this. This is out of control, frantic, helpless. Not the kind that can be channeled into something useful.

Fighting Pela’s blind terror is like resisting the pull of gravity. It’s strong. Very strong. Whatever Bashir’s nefarious contraption has done, it’s enabled his counterpart to wrest control of his body.

Not that Garak intends to let him keep it. Meeting the fear with his own rage, Garak tries to ball his hands into fists. They don’t move, don’t even twitch.

 _This is my body_.

Pela’s tension curls in his gut, tightening like the coils of a snake. Garak shuts his eyes and focuses on the joints of his left hand. Commands them to bend.

_My body._

Bones and flexor muscles and tendons and nerves. He imagines each individual component. He remembers Cardassian fingers cracked backward and fractured, blood gushing from peeled scales because some fool refused to give him the names of his comrades.

_Mine!_

He can feel the strain down to his ligaments as he pushes against his counterpart’s will. Strong. Oh, he’s impressively stubborn. In any other circumstance, Garak might commend his efforts. But he isn’t about to let a second-rate simulacrum get the better of him.

The hold wavers and snaps. A snarl escapes Garak’s clenched teeth as his fist slams the wall.

The sensation of terror recedes but doesn't disappear. With deep, calming breaths, Garak tugs at his sleeves and straightens his tunic in familiar, soothing motions.

There’s an exaggerated clearing of the throat from behind him.

Garak spins to find Odo slinking toward him, his head tilted in inquiry. “Garak,” he says. His eyes slide pointedly to the dent in the wall. Garak pretends not to notice it. “Mind telling me what you’re doing out at this hour?”

“Not at all, Constable.” Garak’s voice is strained, as if someone is crushing his windpipe. He forges on. “I’m simply . . . taking an evening stroll.”

“Good,” Odo drawls. “Then maybe you can stroll back to your quarters.”

Deciding to take him up on the suggestion, Garak bows in farewell and hurries away before Odo can change his mind.

The disquiet is still lingering as Garak crosses the threshold of his quarters, and refuses to bow no matter how much Garak tries to will it away. He can’t allow this to continue. If Pela can now control him in his waking moments of his own volition, what will he do when he’s asleep?

“Tell me,” Garak accuses the empty room, “did Bashir do this deliberately?”

His counterpart remains mute on the subject.

Garak sighs. Confronting Bashir would put him in a vulnerable position, open him to more of the doctor’s meddling. For all he knows, Bashir did this for the express purpose of getting Garak’s permission to crack open his skull. A clever tactic to obtain more information on his lover while maintaining his Federation sensibilities.

Garak pulls his Bajoran disruptor from inside his tunic, switches it to the highest stun setting, and places it on the console within easy reach. It’s unlikely to do him any good if Pela possesses him again, but nonetheless. Best to have an easy out.

He pours a glass of kanar and sits awake catching up on Preloc, familiarizing himself with her newest novel. It isn’t quite _Meditations,_ but it’s difficult to top a masterpiece. If anyone can surprise him, it’s her. Perhaps he’ll lend the isolinear rod to Bottaquey when he’s finished. He does hope the ensign likes literature; he’ll need to discuss his twelve years of backlog with _someone._

As he reads, Garak waits for any signs that his control is slipping, any hints that his counterpart is seeking to catch him unaware. If Pela is capable of plotting another takeover, Garak can’t sense anything beyond the background anxiety.

Tonight, his sleep is measured in the brief lapses of his constant vigilance. He can feel the fatigue the following morning as he toils about the shop. It’s a dull ache behind his eyes. By the afternoon, he’s using the lulls between customers to sift through Bashir’s personal and medical logs, taking notes on the doctor’s writing style.

He’s absorbed in this work when the shop’s doors slide open and a glinn steps through. He’s an imposing figure in Garak’s doorway, muscled beneath his military uniform. From Nokar, if his ridges and coloring are any indications. The glinn shifts his weight and says brusquely, “Mister Garak.”

Garak smiles wide. He looks the glinn up and down. “Do I know you?”

That prompts a sigh. “Gul Dvoll sent me to inform you that she expects you aboard the _Prakesh_ for dinner at 19:00.”

“Ah,” Garak says. He had heard some mutterings about “those Cardassians” returning to the station, but after Pythas’ latest disappointment, he expects little from his former colleagues, Palandine included. Garak contemplates the racks of clothing behind him. “It’s been a while since I’ve dined with a gul. What do you think I should wear?”

The glinn favors him with a thin sneer. “Clothes,” he says and leaves.

Garak rolls his eyes.

He settles on a Bajoran-styled suit he’s fashioned from charcoal gray brocade and cobalt silk. It’s fetching, if he does say so himself. It offsets his pallid skin tone admirably and brings out his eyes. Which, sadly, are the best feature he has left.

When Garak emerges from the shop, dressed and ready for dinner, he can’t help but glance to the cascade of lights over Quark’s bar. Garak looks away. He won’t go to Pythas, no matter how much he might want to.

As he walks to the pylon where the _Prakesh_ is docked, Garak observes the few Cardassians roaming the station. Dvoll’s underlings stroll along the Promenade, upsetting the Bajoran residents and sending them into hiding with a distasteful lack of tact. He doesn’t envy her position, assigned to work alongside Central Command’s brutes.

Curious about the inner workings of Palandine’s ship, Garak doesn’t announce his arrival to anyone. Avoiding the sparsely placed patrols aboard the _Prakesh_ is child’s play. Garak slips through the ship’s corridors unnoticed, making his way from stern to bow.

That’s his intent, at least. He’s closing in on the ship’s armory when he feels a hand clamp over his shoulder. Getting caught wasn’t unexpected, but the way he’s turned and thrown against the wall, knocking several disruptor rifles from their racks— _that_ is.

“ _Bajoran_.” The young man spits it like an insult, shoving Garak back and looking him over with a predatory glint Garak’s seen often before—just never directed at him. The youth is on the cusp of adulthood. Nothing more than a lowly gil. He grabs Garak’s chin and twists his head for a better look. “How did you get in here, Bajoran?”

The gil keeps Garak pinned with his body, transmitting layers of one-wrong-move threat. Utterly laughable, but Garak isn’t laughing. He can feel his counterpart’s fear overriding his calm. Drilled-in instinct wills him into passivity, impelling him to look at the floor when he’d rather break every bone in the gil’s impertinent hand. Garak opens his mouth, but the affable retort doesn’t make it to his lips. His throat is constricted.

“What, you don’t understand language?” the gil snickers. His fingers dig into Garak’s shoulder. “I’ll only ask you one more time, little Bajoran.”

Garak closes his eyes and grits his teeth. He’s a _Cardassian_. He doesn’t deserve to be disrespected by this middling child! Yet he’s trembling, his heart wildly racing like the fluttering wings of a narawak crushed in a fist. At that moment, Garak doesn’t know who he despises more: Pela for his pathetic passivity, or himself for programming him.

The gil taps Garak’s cheek. “Speak up,” he says, enunciating every syllable as if Garak is an idiot. “How did you get here?”

Garak’s eyes snap upward. It must be the most impudent look the gil has seen from a ‘little Bajoran,’ because his face goes to stone and he draws back his arm—whether to hit him or haul him away, Garak doesn’t get to find out.

“I wouldn’t, if I were you,” Dvoll says.

The gil turns. “Gul! Sir, I found this . . . this _Bajoran_ wandering—”

“You should consider treating Mister Garak with more respect,” Dvoll says, stepping between them. “Assuming you’re fond of your spine in its current configuration, that is. He’s our honored guest.”

The gil stares at them in befuddlement. His mouth hangs open as Dvoll takes Garak’s arm as calmly as a mother collecting her wayward child. It’s enough to break the spell; Garak snaps out of the trance and follows the tug of her hand. He even manages to dip his head to the gil in a smug farewell. As they leave the armory, Garak feels his pulse return to normal, but the humiliation lingers.

“Central Command’s finest graduates,” Dvoll mutters, releasing Garak’s arm. She stares ahead as she leads him through the ship’s narrow corridors, oblivious to his discomfiture. “Hard to believe we were ever that young, isn’t it?”

Garak forces a smile. _Not as hard as you may think._ As they pass, her acolytes snap to attention, paying Garak little more than a curious glance. “It seems you were right about Lok,” he says presently.

“He told you himself? Why am I not surprised. He’d been getting sloppy for years before he disgraced us all with his pathos. Tain did you a disservice by not executing him.”

“Mm. Why didn’t he?”

“You know Tain. Pythas was always his favorite.”

_How could I forget?_

“Not that the idiot deserved it,” Dvoll says. “He’d be running things by now if he hadn’t lost his wits.”

The gul’s quarters are spacious but lacking in personal embellishment; the rooms are decorated with only a few relics from her travels. An ancient Vulcan funerary mask here, a portrait of a wizened Ferengi fiduciary there. There’s even the stone statue of a bowing Hebitian that Garak never liked.

As they settle into the first proper Cardassian meal Garak’s had in what feels like eons, he notices the subtle differences that extend beyond appearance. Dvoll eats too fast, shoveling forkfuls of neemuk noodles and skipping past the subtle, polite layers of conversation as if eager to be done with Cardassian pleasantries. An unfortunate habit, born from spending too much time among aliens. If clicking his tongue at his host weren’t unconscionably rude, he just might do it.

While Garak’s still on his appetizer of roasted krintar, Dvoll is already catching him up to speed on her dealings with the Federation terrorist organization that seized the _Defiant._ “I’ve made significant progress against the Maquis,” she tells him, “despite Central Command never considering them a legitimate threat to the Union. Unfortunately, during our last run-in, Commander Sisko and some of my men discovered the fleet we’re building in the Orias system.”

Garak looks up in alarm. By _we,_ she couldn’t mean Central Command; the military has no need to hide its shipyards. “Under whose authority?” he asks.

“Prang’s, of course. If Lok told you about getting booted from the Order, he must’ve mentioned our mentor’s retirement. Korinas is in line to replace him. Oh, you don’t know her. Clever girl, not an original thought in her head. She’ll follow Tain’s directives to the letter, I’m sure.”

That Tain is still pulling the strings beyond his so-called retirement is less surprising than the notion of the Order building an entire fleet of ships. Garak is sure his _dear_ _mentor_ could manage the Order even beyond the grave. He takes another bite and mulls over what he’s been told. A fleet in the Orias system.

Dvoll refills his kanar. “It’s good to see you again, Garak. Truly.”

He takes his glass and smiles. “We had the very best arguments, didn’t we?”

“That we did. Although,” her eyes glint from a wistful memory, “I admit I took a certain amount of pleasure in tormenting Pela over the years. My only regret in losing Terok Nor was being unable to watch you squirm away from me on a daily basis.”

“No, I suppose you’ve never been able to resist an unfair advantage.” Garak pointedly glances around her quarters. “I thought your innate talent for backstabbing would’ve earned you a finer commission by now.”

“I’m counting my blessings. For one, _I’ve_ managed to maintain my cover.”

“Fooling the likes of Central Command is hardly an accomplishment, my dear.”

Her smile loses its glimmer. “While we’re on that subject—you must be curious about how you got here in your current . . . state.” She takes a swallow of kanar and seems to gather her thoughts. “After Lok’s failure, we concluded that you were too valuable to be recalled, so we postponed your activation indefinitely.”

 _Too valuable!_ Garak maintains a bland expression, letting none of his elation show. “Is that why Tain spared my life?”

“We spared your life because it benefited the Order. The moment Pela became involved with Doctor Bashir, I knew he’d discover you. It was only a matter of time. But the opportunity for deeper intelligence was well worth the risk, so I permitted the relationship to continue.”

“And when Bashir did find out,” Garak says, “you gallantly availed yourself to his aid.”

“I kept a close eye on the Federation’s knowledge of you, yes. It gave me a degree of control over the situation and allowed me to monitor you for signs of betrayal. The trial was unfortunate, but it only strengthened our power at home. Before, our use of sleeper agents was nothing but a rumor. Now, every Cardassian, every Bajoran, every Federation official lives in fear that their dearest friends might be one of us.”

Palandine’s ability to spin failure into deliberate stratagem rivals even Tain’s. “Next you’ll tell me that revoking my citizenship was all part of your grand scheme.”

Despite the heavy sarcasm tinging his voice, her face softens. “If I’d known you’d take me up on the offer, I wouldn’t have brought it up. I tried to convince you it was a mistake, but neither of you listened. By then, I thought you were lost forever.” She glances at his glass and refills it again, her eyes following the dregs of kanar dribbling from the bottle as she says, “This is what you—what Pela said you wanted. By the State, Garak, how could I refuse him? If that life made you happy, then as far as I was concerned, you earned your retirement.”

Garak should be furious at her for repeating Pythas’ feeble excuse. As if either of them were in any position to profess what would make him happy! But despite Garak’s most cynical instincts, he can’t help it; he believes her.

In a sense, perhaps he had it easiest of the three of them. His dinner forgotten, Garak covers her hand. The squeeze of his fingers draws her eyes toward his. “Palandine,” he says, “our kind never retire.”

Meeting his stare, she nods.

“Then we’re agreed. You’ll take me back to Cardassia, and we’ll put all of this behind us.”

“Ah.” She slips her hand out of his grasp and stands to retrieve another bottle of kanar from inside a curved, metal hutch. “I don’t have any pull in that matter.”

Garak scoffs loudly.

“I’m serious,” Dvoll says. She pops the cork. “You may be content to never set eyes on this station again, but I have to keep a cordial relationship with Commander Sisko. I’m not about to jeopardize that by ferrying a paroled convict into Cardassian space where, I remind you, you’re unwelcome.”

Seeing his last chance slipping away, Garak rises and stands beside her. “Surely there’s some way to reverse the decision, an appeal—”

“You know as well as I do that these matters are never taken lightly. You’re more likely to seek divine intervention from the Bajoran Prophets.” Dvoll twirls the cork between her fingers. “It’s too bad you’re no longer wearing that earring, Garak. It looked good on you.”

Garak’s eyes longingly trace the gray curve of scales along her neckridge. How he wants to feel real Cardassian skin again. _If you want me on my knees, my dear Palandine, you only have to ask._ Embittered, he says, “What reason do I have to keep the faith?”

Dvoll returns to the table to pour what Garak fears is the last round. “You know more about the Bajoran religion than I do,” she says with a deliberation that commands his attention. “But if my discussions with Major Kira are anything to go by, the point of faith is maintaining it in the absence of proof. So if you want salvation, Garak,” she says, pushing the glass into his hand, “I suggest you use your _unique_ position to do some good deeds and start praying. The higher powers are always watching.”

Such interesting advice. That evening, Garak stands at the entrance of Quark’s, scanning the crowd, searching for the familiar. Pythas is gone, his little store on the mezzanine packed up and replaced with tables occupied by regular bar patrons. He allows himself a moment to brood on his conflicting disappointment and relief, then pushes it aside.

His eyes drift from face to face, and he doesn’t realize he’s looking for Bashir until he spots Bottaquey sitting across from Commander Sisko, both of them hunched over that multi-tiered chess game. Once, he guesses, they must’ve been contemporaries.

 _My unique position,_ Garak repeats. He smiles and makes his way to their table.

Bottaquey’s brows lift, their eyes lighting up in a way that’s _deeply_ flattering to his ego. “Good evening, my dear,” Garak says, then nods to Sisko. “May I ask—what is this game you’re playing?”

“3D Chess,” Sisko says as he moves his bishop to an upper level, preparing to bait Bottaquey into a Légal trap. “One of Earth’s most popular board games. Care to play the winner, Mister Garak?” When Garak begins to correct his use of _mister_ , the commander amends pleasantly, “I mean, _just_ Garak.”

“I’m afraid I’m unfamiliar with the rules.”

“We’ll teach you,” says Bottaquey.

Garak pulls up a chair and maintains an expression of intent curiosity, feigning ignorance as Sisko and Bottaquey eagerly explain the game between moves. How typically _Federation—_ keeping the pieces visible for all to see. Granted, the transparency puts a novel spin on strategy, but it also makes Garak pine for the subterfuge of kotra, or even kalevian montar. Bottaquey’s defeat is assured; although they aren’t a novice, Sisko clearly loves the game. The ensign takes the loss gracefully, surrendering their seat to Garak with a flourish and hurrying off to refresh their drink.

“How’s life on the station treating you, Garak?” Sisko asks as they return the chess pieces to their starting positions across the board.

Garak moves his queen to her dais and pretends to mull over the question. “Marvelously,” he says. “It’s become like a second home to me.”

“Glad to hear it. You know, Constable Odo’s been warning me for weeks that you’re a flight risk. Should I tell him he’s mistaken?”

“Please do! We can’t fault the good constable for doing his job, but I’m a law-abiding Federation citizen. A beacon of Bajoran rehabilitation. I have no intention of leaving.”

He’s laying it on thick. But the message has been planted. Sisko casts him a skeptical glance over the top of the chess board. “Your move,” he says.

Garak is lifting his pawn when he feels Bottaquey place a drink beside him. As he and Sisko trade turns, Bottaquey hovers behind him, their warm fingers brushing the skin of Garak’s neck exposed by his Bajoran tunic. When Garak’s knight draws first blood, Bottaquey’s touch grows bolder, massaging his shoulders. Garak has little intention of winning this match and the added distraction is only reinforcing his abysmal performance. Between moves, Garak reaches up to caress their hand. The gesture doesn’t go unnoticed by Sisko. He catches Garak’s eye across the table and raises a brow.

After the match, he and Bottaquey stand in the middle of the bar and look at each other.

“Where’s that new man of yours?” they ask.

“On his ship, I’m sure.”

“You’re not going with him?”

“No,” Garak says, taking their arm, “I decided I’d much rather stay.”

Gul Dvoll has been kind enough to gift him with a case of fine kanar from her private storeroom. Back in the pseudo-sanctuary of his quarters, Garak cracks open the first bottle. He has to stop Bottaquey from knocking back the glass, covering their hand and chiding, “No, my dear. This is meant to be _sipped._ ”

Sip it, they do. The kanar is exquisite, subtly flavored, its effects as insidious as boiling an Altairian frog alive. The tingling warmth of the vintage is a total solar eclipse, blotting out Pela and his fears. Bottaquey is its corona, bright and weaving in and out of the present to sweetly hummed verses of an old Kardasi lullaby. They laugh together. Time escapes through Garak’s fingers.

He doesn’t notice the room spinning until cold water hits his face.

Garak sits up, sputtering. He’s seated at the edge of the refresher’s narrow tub, Bottaquey crouched between his legs. Their uniform sleeves are rolled to the elbow, the running shower head dangling from one hand. “Are you trying to _drown_ me?” he says with a cough.

There’s a chuff of laughter. Bottaquey drops the wand into the tub and rocks back on their heels, eyes crinkled with mirth as they look him over. The amusement fades as they peer at him closely. Garak shifts, cold and made uncomfortable by his wet hair clinging to his skull.

“I like it,” Bottaquey declares at last.

Before he can respond, they’re dragging him to the refresher’s mirror. He stares at his reflection. His hair hangs perfectly straight, dripping water onto the tiled floor.

It’s black.

His hair is obsidian. Cardassian black.

When he doesn’t immediately speak, they hastily add, “This was your idea, you know,” with the assertive force of one fed up with taking undeserved blame.

They hand him a towel, but Garak doesn’t take it. Yes, the ensign is right; he’d been sprawled beneath his modest dining table, finishing off the bottle and stroking one of Bottaquey’s braids. Aloud, he’d admired the color. One thing had led to another, and now here he is. Looking at himself. Pink-hued Bajoran skin framed by something more familiar.

It looks good. It looks almost right. Garak laughs. And it’s a hollow victory. What does it matter, when everyone who once knew him as a proper Cardassian is gone? Even Tain, dear Tain, can’t muster the wherewithal to be rid of him once and for all. Palandine hadn’t said it, but Garak knows the reason he was spared. He wasn’t worth the _effort._ The cut of Bashir’s insult sinks into his bones: _sub-Cardassian_. Oh, the doctor had been more right than he realized!

Garak closes his eyes to shut out the reflection. His pulse races, hammering faster with each nauseating breath. _No, no, no._ Not now. Not here.

“You’ll have to dye it a lot to keep the roots from showing. It’d be easier to modify your genes to make it come out that color naturally, but I guess if you were able to do that, you’d look like a Cardassian by—Garak?”

He grips the side of the counter, trembling as he struggles to hold back the chaos drumming inside him. He can’t breathe. _Get a grip, Elim!_ He’s too drunk. The kanar has scattered his wits, sapped his control, and every recrimination only makes it worse. He can’t stop it. This was a long time coming.

 _Gone_. This is all he has left.

As Garak’s knees buckle, Bottaquey whispers a Rigelian oath and drops beside him. Garak shakes his head to forestall their intervention, but then Bottaquey’s arms are around him. It’s silent permission. That kindness—given freely, not out of Federation duty—is all he needs. He shudders once, and as the tension snaps like a taut thread, Garak gasps.

As his breaths grow more ragged, Bottaquey holds him tighter. One hand settles to his head, petting his wet hair. Bottaquey hums back his Kardasi lullaby, adding their own embellishments. But they don’t say a word, as if afraid to draw attention to it, and for that Garak is grateful.

When his breathing settles with one last, long sigh of release, Bottaquey gathers him up with a murmured, “Floor’s wet,” and guides him to the bed.

Garak doesn’t say anything. He’s recovered some of his senses, but he’s still raw and dazed. Around him, the room sways. The recriminations are coming again in spades, and while he wants to chase off this person who has seen him weep like a gul’s widow, another part wants to pull them closer. Between that to-and-fro tugging is a galling, inescapable vulnerability.

While Garak calms himself by mentally charting the placement of his nearest weapons, Bottaquey bustles around, casting off their dampened uniform jacket and gathering the blankets with wordless, mundane efficiency. Garak waits for the ensign to make excuses to flee, but they remain.

Now in gray shirtsleeves, Bottaquey climbs into bed beside him. They both lie there, only their shoulders touching. Garak would much rather be tightly held, but he won’t ask for it. Still, it’s a warm, reassuring pressure. While many of Garak’s fellow agents had been proud loners and sadists, Garak has despised being alone. He’d take anything—conversational release, sexual stopgap—anything that would act as a bandage, sopping blood until the wound could clot on its own. Bottaquey is, in several ways, right where he wants them.

He can feel his counterpart’s restlessness, his arresting disapproval. The threat is there. Garak hesitates, his hand hovering over Bottaquey’s thigh. Perhaps this is unwise; he’s putting the ensign’s life in danger. If Pela were capable of choking Pythas while Garak slept, there’s little stopping him now. Garak has killed many people, most of whom deserved it one way or another, but never by accident.

There’s no way of knowing how unstable his counterpart has become, but if he’s fortunate, Pela has enough sense left to realize that murder will only mean another trial and a permanent stay in Gallitep. He’d never see his beloved Doctor Bashir again.

Bottaquey addresses the ceiling. “Garak, I want to apologize. It was stupid and, and I got it in my head it was a good idea. But I promise you, I can fix it. If I’d known it would upset you that much, I swear I never would’ve—what—what are you _laughing_ at?”

Garak shakes his head. He rests a hand on their bare arm. “Only myself,” he says.

“Then . . . wait. You’re not angry at me?”

“On the contrary.”

Anyone else would pose the obvious follow-up, but Bottaquey seems too relieved to consider the question. “I’m glad.” Their eyes flutter closed as Garak gently traces the tattoos outlining their face. “Would you mind,” they say, “if I stayed the night? Just once. My roommate likes to snore. One of the many perks of being an ensign.” They yawn dramatically. “It’d be nice not to hear it for one night.”

“Of course, my dear.”

“You’re too kind,” they say without a hint of sarcasm.

It’s not an accusation anyone has ever made against him before.

The door chimes, interrupting his thoughts. Murmuring an apology to his drowsing bedmate, Garak finds his robe. He staggers to the door to answer.

Rom does a double-take at the sight of him. His mouth hangs open. “Uh, Mister Garak?”

Garak smiles patiently. “Yes, Rom. It’s still me.”

“Oh. That’s good.” He barks out a nervous laugh and peeks over Garak’s shoulder. Garak doesn’t bother trying to block his line of sight. Whatever he sees only flusters him more. “Sorry, I, uh, didn’t mean to interrupt. But, uh—” He seems to remember the package in his hands. “Mister Gideric wanted you to have this.”

Surprised, Garak glances at the box. He makes no move to take it. “Where is he now?”

“He was leaving on his ship when he gave it to me. He said it was for you.”

Pythas would be long gone now. After a moment of consideration, Garak accepts the box and bids Rom a good night. The package is lighter than expected. Bottaquey is already asleep, so he carries the box into the small sitting area, where he scans it with his tricorder. The object inside is a portable cooling unit. No sign of explosives.

Garak lifts the box’s lid and gingerly opens the spherical cooling unit. It ejects its contents with a hiss. Held within its protective claws, a silver canister glints in the light. He reads the Kardasi lettering on the tag marking it the property of the Applied Science Directorate.

Garak takes a step back.

_Oh._

He sinks down into the sofa. He can only imagine the great personal risk Pythas must’ve taken to give him this.

The comm chirps. “Bashir to Garak!”

With his eyes firmly glued on the canister, Garak reaches over and lowers the volume on the channel. “Good evening, Doctor.”

“‘ave to agree to disagree,” Bashir slurs. “Back in your own quarters again, are you? Quark tol’ me it didn’t work out with you and that Gideric fellow. What a crying shame.”

 _Yes, you sound so disappointed on my behalf!_ Garak makes a mental note to _impress_ upon the Ferengi that he prefers to have his private affairs kept private. “Doctor!” Garak says, feigning scandalization, “I do believe you’re _drunk._ ”

“I might’ve had a few. Sod it, I’m sloshed. My life’s all at sixes and sevens . . . what’re you whispering for?”

“I’m a spy, Doctor. We always whisper.”

“What you are, Garak, is a right bastard.”

The insult takes him aback. Garak looks askance at the comm.

“Not just literally, either. Figure . . . figuratively. Care for my theory, Garak? It’s all rather obvious. You’re an utter wanker because your father never, well, he never loved you, did he? You were a disappointment. ‘Spose I can sympathize, but for a Cardassian, that must’ve been unbearable. Awful stuff. Gave you a bit of a complex, didn’t it? Was it hard, _Garak_ , watching the other children playing . . . playing with their fathers, having a lovely time, while yours was embarrassed at the sight of you? Is that it? Tell me, Garak, am I warm?”

Garak sets his jaw and draws a slow breath. He keeps his voice delicately mild so as not to wake Bottaquey. “Doctor,” he hisses, “I’m warning you. You’re treading on very dangerous ground.”

“So what if I am, Garak? What’re you going to do, hmm? Kill me?” Bashir makes a noise between a hiccup and a sob. “Well,” he says quietly, “you know where to find me.”

The words startle Garak, and a second later the comm goes dead. He feels the anger drain out of him, replaced by something else. An emotion that has never done him any good.

 _You may not want my pity, Doctor,_ Garak thinks as he looks at the cooling unit, _but you have it._

With the press of a button, Garak lowers the desegranine into its protective housing and pads back to bed.


	11. Chapter 11

He’s close.

Garak takes a sip of tea and finishes reading the final paragraph of Bashir’s latest journal entry. He tosses the padd to join the others cluttering his workbench. While Bashir’s new hobby of logging his private thoughts has been a boon to Garak’s research, he’s never had the unique experience of pursuing a target so personally fixated on _him._ To his past targets, Garak had been a nonentity.

To Bashir, however, Garak is a source of torment—a point he’s eloquent in expressing. His emotions span frustration, grief at what he’s lost, jealousy of Bottaquey and “that El-Aurian trader,” self-recrimination for his own behavior, and profound hopelessness. In contrast, Bashir’s medical officer logs are dry. Professional. Analytical. Besides the hint of weariness in his voice, there’s little indication of his turmoil. The doctor possesses an admirable dedication to his duties.

And he writes surprisingly well, his words carefully selected for a man who often speaks so impulsively, the flow of his logic suggesting an adroit, nimble mind. Bashir’s Academy papers on the subject of comparative literature are especially well-argued. One such essay—a juxtaposition between the ancient Earth trilogy the _Oresteia_ and a modern Andorian play Garak had seen years ago—is so intriguing that Garak spends an evening reading the Greek tragedy in order to fully appreciate his thesis.

Bashir’s conclusions might be flawed and laughably arrogant, but they’re passionate nonetheless. On more than one occasion, Garak has caught himself smiling as he reads. If circumstances had been different—

If circumstances were different, he’d be a legate commanding the First Order, for all that’s worth.

There’s something else, however. It nags at the back of Garak’s mind. Something _off_ that defies identification. If only he were more familiar with humans, perhaps he could put his finger on it.

There’s a rap of knuckles against glass. Bottaquey’s head appears in the doorway. “Working hard or hardly working?”

“Ah,” Garak swivels in his seat, “is it eighteen hundred already?”

“Ten past,” they say. “And I thought Cardassians prided themselves on their punctuality.”

“I seem to be losing track of time in my old age.” Garak stacks the padds into tidy piles. “I’ll be right there, I only need to—” As if attached to a string, Garak’s arm swings out on its own volition and slaps the topmost padd to the floor. He stares at it in alarm.

“Let me.” Bottaquey rushes over and picks it up. They raise a brow. “You password lock your tailoring documents?”

Taking the padd from their hand, Garak sets it aside and smiles to cover his unease. “One can never be too careful,” he says. “Fashion is a treacherous business, my dear.”

The seemingly random muscle spasms are becoming less random. An unmistakable pattern has developed. Whenever Garak has a less-than-benign thought concerning Bashir, he’ll soon find one of his legs giving out while he’s walking, or steering him straight into a clothing rack. They’ve been increasing in frequency, as if his counterpart is testing his abilities. Flexing.

Or trying to get his attention.

Up until now, Pela’s had the decency to play his games while Garak is alone, but he’s growing bolder with each passing day. The shows of clumsiness are mostly harmless now, but Garak senses the threat behind each fumbled sizing scanner, each near fall down a flight of stairs.

There is no forestalling the inevitable. Garak can only wait.

That night, Garak awakens in bed holding his own dagger to his throat. He can feel the cold strip of steel poised over his main artery. Despite the danger, he brims with elation, swelling with a pride fathers must feel when a son follows in their footsteps. At last, they’re speaking the same language! After all, if someone is menacing your lover, what is the most expedient response but to eliminate the threat at its source? It’s what he’d do if their positions were reversed.

After a few moments spent assessing the situation, Garak tests Pela’s hold over his body. He commands his fingers to loosen their grip on the dagger. For his arm to lower. But this time Garak isn’t fighting blind fear but a calm resolve that mirrors his own. If he’s capable of moving at all, it’s only because Pela _allows_ it.

He’d sharpened the blade that morning. As Garak carefully speaks, he feels its edge cutting into his soft Bajoran skin. “I take it,” Garak says, his eyes flicking through his darkened quarters, “this is about our mutual acquaintance Doctor Bashir?”

Garak waits for an answer. As usual, it comes in stretches of silence.

“I’ll assume that’s a yes.”

He has to admit, he’s impressed by his counterpart’s willingness to kill both of them in order to spare his lover. Garak hadn’t included a penchant for self-sacrifice in Pela’s original personality. Perhaps all those Bajoran romance novels had gone to his head. Hardly as noble as sacrificing oneself for Cardassia, but laudable all the same.

Garak gentles his voice to a soothing purr, the kind used for assuring detainees that their families are safe from harm. “I promise,” he says, “I have no intention of hurting him.”

In response, his grip tightens around the dagger. Garak winces as the blade stings his skin and something hot and wet trickles down his throat. He can almost _feel_ his counterpart’s wagging finger, scolding him.

Garak smiles. Ah, well. He should’ve known better than to lie to someone with infinite access to his own thoughts. Time for a new tactic.

“Be my guest,” he says, tossing aside all pretense and leaving his naked disdain. “If you’re indeed reading my thoughts, you’d know this won’t work. You have my memories. How often have I imagined myself in this very situation? Oh, it was always a harmless fantasy—a thought experiment, if you will. But now that I’m sitting here, I wonder . . . why not?” Garak glances around furtively. “I mean, what else shall I do with my life? Wait another twelve years for Tain’s forgiveness? We both know how that will turn out. No, I’m _nothing_ here.”

Through the waiting stillness of his own shallow breathing, Garak can feel his grip on the blade loosen ever-so-slightly. A sure sign that his counterpart is paying close attention. Garak continues, warming to his tirade. “You’re forgetting the basic tenants of assassination! Every second of hesitation brings you closer to failure! My dear _,_ do you know how many people would _envy_ your position? You should be eager to be rid of me! After all, I ruined your relationship with Bashir. Twice!”

He blinks, waiting. A trickle of sweat runs down his spine but he ignores it, wets his lips. Nothing yet. He lowers his voice to a hiss. “If you don’t kill me, I’ll pump your irritating lover with so much anesthizine even his stalwart system won’t recover.”

There’s a flicker of that earlier fear and Garak’s fingers squeeze the blade in a white-knuckled grip. _Ah, a response!_ But the dagger doesn’t move, doesn’t sever the artery, and Garak’s excitement dies as he comes to a realization. The threat had been idle from the start.

It was a bluff. One meant to force Garak to abandon his plot against the doctor. Much like Pela’s attack on Pythas, this is nothing but a cry for attention. Even with the life of his beloved doctor hanging in the balance, Pela is unable to commit murder. Of course. Garak had heard the turmoil in Pela’s confession to Counselor Troi, in his last recorded words. Despite the stain of Garak’s memories, Pela won’t abandon his own scruples.

“Go on,” Garak taunts one last time, but it’s no use. The tightness in his muscles dissolves, severing the connection.

As Garak tentatively lowers his arm, his spare hand goes to his neck. He wipes away a smear of blood and, sighing, tucks the blade beneath the pillow. Nothing a dermal regenerator can't fix. Pulling up the covers, he lies back down and searches the ceiling. 

He’s won. Bashir’s lost. As with all his victories, it feels more like he’s kicked in his own teeth. 

The next morning, Garak peers down from the second level of the Promenade and watches the flow of foot traffic. Below, Bashir strolls between the stalls, his eyes vacant, mind far away, and Garak can’t help but find Bashir’s faint smile distinctly smug. _Clever thing,_ Garak thinks with admiration.

But still a dead man.

First things first, however. Before Bashir can go, he’ll have to deal with his counterpart. A small shuffling of priorities.

“I know you don’t want to hear this,” Troi tells him, swirling her straw and sending ice swimming circles in her glass, “but Pela didn’t make progress until he accepted that you were part of him.”

“You’re saying that this problem of mine will only go away if my counterpart and I join forces?”

“In a manner of speaking. You two can’t stay at odds forever. Your mind wasn’t meant to be fragmented like this. It’s unsustainable, and it’ll only get worse the more you resist it. You mentioned this happened gradually. You don’t know why?”

“No, it just seemed to—” Garak wiggles his fingers, “—come out of nowhere.”

“You know, I’d have an easier time helping you if you told me the truth.”

“What I’ve said is true enough to suit your purposes, Counselor. I can’t _begin_ to imagine why my counterpart would want this frail old body, much less how he’s taken control over it.”

For a Starfleet counselor, Troi’s sigh is distinctly exasperated. “All right. My advice is to delve into why you’re so against reconciling this part of yourself. It’s perfectly valid to be concerned about what you might lose. You were just as worried the last time. But,” Troi says, “I have a feeling you’re not here for my advice.”

Garak leans back and nods once.

“I’m only half-Betazoid, Garak. I don’t know what you were expecting, but I can’t even sense Pela’s mind. That might change if I were present while he’s taking control. If we put you under observation—”

“Would it be possible to erect a mental block, even temporarily?”

Troi takes a pull from the straw as she considers it. “Not without some kind of technological assistance,” she says at last. “I’d have to go over it with Doctor Bashir.”

His counterpart might be attempting to kill him, but his situation is not _that_ desperate. Even if Garak threatened, blackmailed, and browbeat the doctor into reversing whatever he’s done, there’s an unsettling possibility that Bashir might make things worse. Keeping the resignation out of his voice, Garak stands. “Thank you for your time, Counselor. Please enjoy the dress.” He turns to the door.

“Garak, wait! I just thought of something.”

“Oh?”

Troi’s smiling now, her eyes twinkling as she circles the table. “My mother.”

* * *

The station bustles with new arrivals. For days, nonresident aliens clog its corridors in anticipation of the Bajoran Gratitude Festival, pointing to the sun-and-moon decorations festooned across the Promenade, laughing at the juggling performers, and sifting through Garak’s merchandise with no intent to purchase. He’ll be grateful when it’s over.

As the lollygaggers disrupt all routine, Garak sees the same sentiment reflected in Odo’s pained eyes.

Two hours before the festival officially begins, the non-customers leave Garak’s shop in a mass exodus for the Promenade, granting him a welcome lull. He’s sewing the plastron of Mister Rolin’s newly-commissioned shirt when Counselor Troi appears in his doorway, followed by a middle-aged couple. Garak has only a second to compose himself before they’re upon him.

“There he is,” Troi says. “Mother, father, this is Mister Garak. Garak, let me introduce Ambassador Lwaxana Troi, and Commodore Ian Troi.”

Garak inclines his head and takes each of their hands in Federation fashion, holding Lwaxana’s for an extra second or two. She smiles, dark Betazoid eyes half-lidded as she purrs, “What a lovely shop you have, Mister Garak.”

As Troi’s father politely queries him on Cardassian politics, Garak keeps his attention discretely focused on the Ambassador. On anyone else, he would consider her dress improper for a woman of her age and social stature, but like her daughter, Lwaxana Troi possesses the ability to make even the most immodest of garments soigne. Though the exchange of pleasantries, she catches his eye, her smile as suggestive as the cut of her dress. Oh, this is turning out to be an enjoyable conversation.

Then her smile fades into a frown. She looks around as if searching for something. “Mister Garak,” she says, “is there anyone else here in your shop?”

Garak exchanges a brief glance with Troi before saying, “Only us, Madame Ambassador.”

“Oh.” Her eyes flit over his face in internal discourse. Smiling, she takes her husband’s arm and gives it a firm pat. “Come along, dear, we mustn’t keep Mister Garak from his work. Major Kira should be starting the festival any minute now.” Over her shoulder, she calls, “Peldor joi, Mister Garak.”

Garak returns to his workbench. Quite a woman.

That evening, the air is thick with the cloying scent of burnt Bateret leaves. It follows him into Quark’s, disrupting his senses as he tries to carry an amiable conversation with Major Kira and Lieutenant Dax. Around them, the festival is coming to vibrant life.

“I don’t know about you,” Dax says, offering a piece of moba fruit to Kira, “but this has to be my favorite Bajoran holiday. Maybe it’s the part about fresh starts. It makes you feel so _alive.”_

“I know what you mean,” Kira agrees. She takes a bite of the fruit and chews thoughtfully. “I just wish I had someone to start fresh _with_.”

“You should write that down on a renewal scroll. Who knows what could happen? What about you, Garak? What do you think?”

Garak glances down at the celebrants. Before today, his knowledge of the Peldor Festival came from books and memory engrams stolen from captured terrorists. He’d never had the opportunity to experience it firsthand. Cardassia’s festivals were nothing like this; his people weren't in the habit of wasting time on trivialities like personal renewal. If the Union ever held any regard for the simple joy of being alive, it lost it long ago. Remembering Dax’s question, Garak tempers his interest with a bland smile. “I could do without the smoke, but I must admit the overall atmosphere is pleasant.”

“A ringing endorsement,” Dax says. “You know, Ben told me you two have been playing chess together.”

“Are you challenging me to a match, Lieutenant?”

“I’m more of a tongo girl.” She places a hand on her hip. “Ben also said you volunteered your services to him and the Federation.”

“Is that so,” Kira says.

“Only in the unlikely event that he needs my meager skills,” Garak corrects. Sisko had been tactfully non-committal about accepting his offer. “In the spirit of this festival, I’m turning over a new leaf. So to speak.”

Kira scoffs. Dax elbows her in the side and says, “Good for you, Garak.”

From a corner, a pair of shouting voices disrupts the levity. It doesn’t take long for Garak to spot the source of the commotion. Chief O’Brien. Arguing with his wife.

“She just got back from Bajor,” Kira says.

Dax looks ready to comment when a Ferengi waiter appears, tray balanced on blue-painted fingertips. He hands them their drinks with a toothy leer. “Springwine for you, Major. Ah, Lieutenant, you look ravishing this evening. Enjoy your starduster. And Mister Garak—”

Garak reaches for the glass and knocks it out of the Ferengi’s hand.

The glass shatters against the floor. It’s only sheer luck that neither the shards nor the black spray of kanar reach Dax’s satin dress. Mouths drop open. Garak has only a second to recover from his own horror, suppressing the nascent flood of humiliation and drawing himself up. He shoots the Ferengi what Bashir would likely term an ‘imperious Cardassian’ look. “That,” he says tightly, “is not what I ordered.”

“But,” the poor man stammers, “but you said—”

“No self-respecting Cardassian drinks kanar over ice.” With that, Garak turns from the Ferengi (who is quietly, confusedly, insisting that there wasn’t any ice) and inclines his head to his still-gaping companions. “Please excuse me.”

Garak retreats to the other side of the bar, through choking clouds of smoke, until he reaches the viewports. In the endless visible starscape, Cardassia’s star is in hiding. He covers his face with his hands and breathes.

“Well, that wasn’t very nice!”

Garak manages not to flinch. He looks over his shoulder. “You saw that?”

“I didn’t have to,” Lwaxana says with a dismissive wave and closes the distance between them. She gives his bicep an affectionate squeeze, and unlike Bashir’s irritating overfamiliarity, he finds the gesture comforting. “Relax,” she says. “Why, if I got so mortified every time I did something foolish in public, I’d never leave the house!”

Wisely stated, but she isn’t possessed by a Bajoran _fiend._

“Maybe not, but when a Betazoid gets to be my age—not that I’m terribly old, mind you—you’ve seen it all. Shall we sit down? My feet are killing me.”

Garak fights his instinctive defensiveness at the psychic invasion. Troi had warned him that her mother was both a skilled telepath and unfettered by boundaries. _A brief loss of privacy is a small price to pay, isn’t it, Elim?_ When Lwaxana simply smiles expectantly, Garak nods and leads them to one of the few unoccupied tables. He pulls out a chair for her.

“How gallant,” she says, sitting. “I do love Cardassians. Such ordered minds! It makes them delightfully easy to read.”

Garak pauses midway in his chair. He isn’t sure whether to be offended by the backhanded compliment or impressed by the ease at which she delivered it.

“Oh, don’t be so stuffy. Your race is so preoccupied with _appearances._ ” She sighs, her lips turned down in disapproval. “Doesn’t it exhaust you?”

“I think we both know how important appearances can be.”

“Well, they won’t do you any good with me. Now, do you want my help or not?”

“Seeing as how you’re already familiar with my situation, I wonder what would compel you to get involved.”

“You mean what am I getting out of it? That’s simple! I want you to go on a date with my daughter. Kestra needs a man in her life, and she isn’t getting any younger. You find her attractive, don’t you?”

Garak stares at her, nonplussed. What an outrageous proposition. She _can’t_ be serious.

“I’m not.” Lwaxana laughs melodically and leans forward. “Honestly, Mister Garak, Kestra asked for my help, and I’ve never been able to say no to that girl. Nobody is truly a stranger to a Betazoid—beside those _irksome_ Ferengi—and I can’t stand to see a creature suffer.” She reaches across the table and covers his hand with both of her own. Her dark eyes fill with concern. “Your mind is in turmoil, and we both know that you can’t go on like this. Let me help you.”

Garak is debating whether such “help” is worth the risk when his eye catches Bashir’s familiar figure wandering into the bar. As he weaves closer to their table in his search for an open seat, Garak feels Pela react. His body tenses and his hand twitches beneath Lwaxana’s as if to withdraw. Garak keeps it in place.

Out of the corner of his eye, Garak observes Bashir stopping short as he spots them. “You must be joking me,” Bashir mutters, the words a sneer on his lips. Although Lwaxana couldn’t have heard him, she makes a face as if someone has whispered a vulgarity in her ear.

Scowling, Bashir turns and pushes his way out of the bar.

“Alas,” Garak says, “I’m afraid the doctor has quite the active imagination. This,” Garak nods to her hands, “will do nothing to improve his opinion of our virtue.”

“Virtue—feh! I’m not concerned about that—Ian and I don’t keep secrets from each other. It’s you and Doctor Bashir I’m worried about.”

Garak tries to tamp down any errant thoughts about putting Bashir in a casket, clearing his mind to the serene ocean painting in his quarters, but he fears the very act of controlling his thoughts in front of a Betazoid is like opening a bag of flies.

“You two,” she says without missing a beat, “you have a love that’s so pure, so _honest_. Do you have any idea how rare that is?”

Garak suppresses a sigh. He doesn’t have the energy to argue with her use of present tense, and there’s hardly any point in lying to a telepath. “Perhaps,” Garak says, smiling, “this would be a matter better discussed in private?”

They agree that Garak’s shop, surrounded by Pela’s hand-seamed creations, is just the private venue they need. Lwaxana sits across from him, the silk folds of her dress brushing his knees as she gently probes his mind. Although she isn’t physically touching him, Garak flinches as he feels her mind pressing the edges of his consciousness.

“You Cardassians are psychically well-armored,” she says.

“I was under the impression we were easy to read,” Garak says tersely.

“Read, yes, but not manipulate. Luckily this other mind of yours is Bajoran. Now, really, you’ll have to trust me and let your guard down, or we won’t be getting anywhere!”

Reluctantly, Garak complies, relaxing back into his chair. He keeps his mind open as he feels her thoughts flowing over his like a surging tide. He keeps his eyes on her face, waiting for signs of horror, the recoil of disgust, the furrow of pity on her brow, but as their minds join, Lwaxana only shakes her head. _You tormented man._

Her thoughts ripple through him. Aloud, she says, “You’ll have to do most of the work, but that shouldn’t be too difficult. You already have the training. I’ll merely be helping you along. Like a sort of psychic amplifier.”

 _Then he can be eliminated?_ Garak asks, perhaps too enthusiastically.

 _Eliminated?_ Her eyes fly open, and he feels her shock. _As in killed? Goodness, I can’t believe you’re asking me that! Even if it were possible, I wouldn’t do it. I wouldn’t let you._

When Garak begins to argue with her mistaken moralizing, she interrupts. _It isn’t about that. You’ve gardened, haven’t you, Mister Garak? You know how weeds work. His roots are buried so deeply, even I can’t tell where he ends and you begin. There’s no way to destroy him without hurting you in the process. No. The best I can do is cordon him off so he can’t cause any more trouble._

Disappointing, but not surprising. Pela has had twelve years, unfettered, to entangle himself. “He’s aware of everything I do,” Garak reminds her. “He’ll see us coming.”

Lwaxana winks. “Leave that to me, dear.”

And then she takes his hand.


	12. Chapter 12

There’s a jolt and Garak instinctively gasps as Lwaxana pushes him into another reality, an alien dimension of a third mind. The tangible world falls away, visible to the outer corners of his awareness as if peering at the sky from the bottom of an ocean.

 _This is the closest I can get to his mind,_ Lwaxana tells him. _You’ll have to find the rest of the way yourself._

As soon as he digests that information, thought and memories begin to take metaphorical shape. First two-dimensional: a pattern of maroon against taupe, hand-woven and soft to the touch. Garak recognizes the rug—it had decorated the foyer of Tain’s home in Cardassia City. Walls solidify around it, forming a third-dimension, followed by paintings and hanging lamps and shelves and furniture.

Then _he_ solidifies. Garak stares down at his gray hands, turning them over back and forth. He admires the familiar black cuffs of his uniform and feels the scales and ridges along his face, exactly as they should be. He smiles.

 _I don’t think I approve of that uniform,_ Lwaxana says.

“Sadly,” Garak says, testing his voice, “I didn’t have a hand in designing it.”

_Black is so dismal! Would it have killed you to call yourselves by a stone with some color?_

Garak’s smile widens. He sinks his fingers into the velvet of the drapes, kicking up a cloud of dust in the process. Mila had always been lax in that chore. He inhales deeply. It even smells the same.

Through the window, he can see the morning sun shining on the street. “Where are you?”

_Everywhere, of course. Don’t worry about me. I’d rather not waste my energy creating an avatar unless it’s absolutely necessary. Shall we proceed? I think I hear someone in the kitchen._

Garak tilts his head, listening. Muffled clacking glass. He follows the sounds toward the kitchen, but before he can cross the threshold, his surroundings shift and he finds himself standing in the middle of Tain’s cellar. It’s also as he remembers it, the beds and work tools preserved, untouched by revised memories. He hasn’t set foot here in over eighteen years.

 _Try thirty, dear,_ Lwaxana says. A thought flits through Garak’s mind, but not before she catches it and scolds him. _Well, that’s uncalled for! I was only stating a fact. There’s no need to shoot the messenger._

“You’re right,” he says sincerely. “Forgive me.”

 _Apology accepted._ She sounds mollified. _I suppose I could sympathize with being defensive about my age. In ten or fifteen years, of course._

Garak isn’t alone in the cellar. There’s a flash of color to the left. Garak spots a Bajoran man crouched on the floor, head bowed as he gingerly unwraps a bundle of folded orange cloth. Kesset’s movements are furtive and he repeatedly glances up toward the door. He doesn’t seem to notice Garak’s approach.

 _What is it?_ Lwaxana asks.

Garak peers over Kesset’s shoulder as the last of the shawl falls away. The metal plating of the barrel is buffed bronze, the handgrip worn and scuffed with use. Mila’s disruptor. Kesset stares at it for a long moment. Then, trembling, he takes the disruptor in his hands and aims the barrel at his chest and Garak has seen so many men cry in his life. He shouldn’t still be affected by it.

“This isn’t my memory,” Garak whispers. “I wasn’t here.”

_No, but Mila told you, and your mind filled in the blanks. Happens all the time._

A fabrication, then. Garak can sense Lwaxana’s tension through the taut line of their temporary meld. She wants him to intervene, but Garak disagrees with her Federation mindset. All of this happened half a lifetime ago. Interfering here in the confines of his mind won’t change the past. It won’t even change his own memory. There’s no fighting inevitability.

Still, as Kesset closes his eyes and prepares to squeeze the trigger, Garak holds his breath. Despite knowing what comes next, he considers grabbing his wrist. A second later, the disruptor whirls to life. But it doesn’t discharge. Kesset looks at it in confusion, tries again. Nothing happens. He visibly swallows and collapses forward, his body wracked with silent sobs.

“Mila’s disruptor—” Garak begins to explain, but Mila’s voice calls down from above, cutting him off.

“It’s encoded to my genetic material, you fool,” she shouts. “Do you think I’d leave it lying around if you could shoot me in the back whenever you wanted?”

 _What a frightful woman,_ Lwaxana says.

Garak smiles fondly at the ceiling. When he looks down at Kesset’s hunched form, he feels the smile fade. This must be a no-man’s-land between his mind and Pela’s. Garak’s attention falls to the door leading outside. Whatever Pela intended to show him here, he’s seen it. He’s only grateful that his counterpart held back and didn’t present him with the more unpleasant recreations from his memory. If he’d gone forward another year—

Garak’s hand closes around the door’s handle. He pushes it open.

The cellar vanishes behind him while before him the world becomes a breathtaking garden beneath a blue, alien sky. As he walks past beds of Edosian orchids, he realizes it’s a recreation of Tolan’s garden. Down to the last flower. Although Garak has never set foot on Bajor, he’s read enough descriptions to recognize the serrated edge of the Releketh mountains on the horizon. He plucks a yald’ana flower and examines its blue-green petals. “Is my mind nothing but fabrications?”

 _Oh,_ Lwaxana says with an audible click of her tongue, _this isn’t your mind._

Beyond the garden, an unending orchard of moba trees surrounds it from all sides, bringing the scent of citrus in the wind. They must be close. He isn’t quite sure what he’s going to do with Pela once he finds him. “Does he know we’re here?”

_I’ve been shielding your thoughts from him. I can’t sense him just yet, but he must have an idea by now._

Leaving the yald’ana flower behind, Garak wanders out of the garden and into the shade of the moba trees. There’s no trail, no footprints, no obvious hint of where he’s supposed to go. Bajor’s sun casts pockets of glittering light through the canopy’s shadows. Garak doesn’t recall this orchard on the list of implanted memories, but didn’t Bashir say that Pela had forgotten all his programming? That could make this memory an authentic one.

He’s been walking for what feels like a quarter hour when he sees the silhouette of a child crouched in the dirt. Garak gives his sidearm a pat to confirm its existence and makes a slow approach. There’s no disguising the crunch of twigs and dried leaves beneath his boots. When he’s three meters away, Garak stops.

The Bajoran boy is digging with a trowel, head bowed as he makes neatly-spaced craters in the soft soil. If he notices Garak’s arrival, he’s too intent on his work to pay him any mind. After a time, he pauses to wipe his nose, leaving behind a smudge of dirt, and looks up.

Garak suppresses a cold shiver. Oh, that is _uncanny._

“Hanyu,” the boy says. He doesn’t smile, but he doesn’t look unfriendly either.

Garak favors him with a brisk nod. “Soraya renga.”

With that formality out of the way, the boy returns to digging, seemingly content to ignore his presence. Garak studies him closely. _Why a child?_ he wonders. In this metaphysical landscape, Pela could take any form of his imagining. A beast of legend, perhaps. Fek’lhr, or Oralius, or even a pah-wraith. Talek would be an excellent choice; as a boy, Garak hated the idea of a one-eyed monster capable of eating him up in one bite. But instead Pela has gone with a child: small, harmless, vulnerable.

It’s a deliberate ploy, of course. One meant to gain his sympathy or trick him into letting his guard down. Garak is almost offended by the attempt. He was once in the business of crafting disguises. Pela is the very _culmination_ of his skill! Did he really think he’d be so easily manipulated by this pretense?

Lwaxana sighs so heavily he can almost feel her breath on his nape. _Are all Cardassians this cynical? He’s a little boy—go over there and talk to him!_

The ‘little boy’ has stopped digging. Setting the trowel aside, the boy reaches into a gunnysack and scatters a handful of what look like pebbles into the holes. Garak can’t help his curiosity. He takes a step closer. “What is that you’re planting?”

“Beets.” The boy pushes mounds of soil into the holes, covering the seeds. “Julian doesn’t like beets, but I don’t think he gave them a chance. I didn’t like katterpods at first but then I tried them roasted and now they’re my favorite. You can like anything if you try hard enough.”

Garak nods slowly as he circles closer. “Persistence _is_ a virtue,” he agrees, “but not all food is worthy of your esteem, is it?”

The boy pats the soil with the back of his trowel and frowns. “You mean . . . if it makes you sick? I like plomeek soup but I can’t eat it because it makes me puff up, and I really like tuwaly pie but if I eat too much it also makes me puff up, but in a different way.” Lwaxana snorts in an aborted giggle. The boy thinks a moment, then continues, “And Julian says my body needs meat, but I don’t want to eat animals, even if they taste good. Julian says that’s silly because they’re replicated, but it still makes me sad, so I throw it away when he isn’t looking.” He looks briefly guilty at this, then resumes rambling. “I heard horta eat rocks, but I can’t eat rocks either—”

_Dear me, he’s a chatty little thing, isn’t he? The poor creature is starved for attention._

Garak touches the boy’s shoulder to stop the flow of words.

Suddenly he’s back in the shop, only its contents have been rearranged. The rack of coats is against the wrong wall, the summerwear too close to the door. A pregnant Bajoran woman nervously pats her belly, eyes downcast while he quickly stitches together a rip with blue thread. He’s assuring her that the dress will be good as new, trying to ignore the green-gray bruise peeking from her sleeve. Then she’s gone, replaced by a long-necked Cardassian in a gul’s uniform. The Cardassian towers above him, thin smile dripping promise or threat. Too fast. Garak can’t make out his words. 

Garak snatches his hand away. The boy stares up at him, equally alarmed.

Perhaps it would be best to keep the physical contact to a minimum. With a shake of his head, Garak forces a friendly smile. “Now that your beets are planted,” he says, dropping to a knee so they’re eye-level, “I think it’s time we go.”

“No.”

“Oh, but I insist!”

“I don’t want to.”

“I’m afraid you have no choice in the matter.”

The boy folds his arms and turns away. “Yes, I do. I have a right to self-determination. Julian says it’s the essence of democracy.”

Garak sighs and rolls his eyes up toward the cloudless sky. Guls and legates dead and alive, give him strength. He does _not_ have the time to argue with the child-projection of a man who never even experienced a childhood. He draws his sidearm. As he’s about to fire, a hand closes around his wrist, jerking him back.

The beam shoots harmlessly into the trees. The boy yelps and takes off running.

Garak twists to glare at Lwaxana. “Thank you so much for your assistance!”

“Have you listened to a word I said?”

“I was _only_ going to stun him.”

“There’s no such _thing_ as a stun setting in this place! You must be careful with how you use your psychic energy. There’s no telling what it might do to him, or you for that matter.” Lwaxana sets her arms akimbo. “Now please put that silly thing _away_.”

“I hope you have an idea for how we proceed.”

“Of course I do. We’ll corral him.” Her intentions flow into him as one instantaneous thought, telling him what needs to be done. “A barrier should do the trick,” she says.

Garak looks across the orchard in the direction the boy ran. He’s long gone. With a sigh, Garak holsters his sidearm and continues through the endless alleys of trees. Lwaxana glides behind him, her feet never touching the ground. Garak sneaks a sidelong glance and smiles. She looks noticeably younger here.

She winks at him. “I’m not the only one, dear.”

It doesn’t take them long to track down their quarry. The orchard opens into a field of dry grass. At its center, a massive moba tree towers above them, easily dwarfing its siblings. As Garak peers upward, he spots a structure nestled between its bough of thick, twisting branches. A small wooden house.

The boy pops his head through one of the windows and glares at them.

“Oh, how darling!” Lwaxana exclaims. “Do you see that, Garak? He’s made his own little treehouse!”

Garak doesn’t share her enthusiasm. Here, in the space of Pela’s mind, the boy has ultimate domain over the environment. And he’s just seized the high ground. Calculating his next move, Garak takes a step closer to examine the structure.

Inside, the boy ducks down. A beat later, he reappears in the window with a spherical object raised above his head. It’s enough warning for Garak to sidestep as an oversized moba fruit lands at his feet with a thump. The psychic equivalent of a warning shot across his prow.

With a childish grunt of effort, the boy hurls another fruit, then another, and another, until the grass becomes a minefield of discarded moba. One flies in Lwaxana’s direction and she vanishes before it can knock her to the ground.

 _Little hoodlum!_ she huffs.

“Leave me alone!” the boy shouts.

Darling, indeed.

There will be no winning if he tries to play by the boy’s rules. Primitive as it is, the tree is heavily fortified, with the boy possessing an endless supply of projectiles. Garak considers a disruptor burst to the tree’s trunk, then quickly discards the idea as too dangerous. He recalls their last encounter, when Pela had threatened him with the knife. With pointed slowness, Garak raises his hands in surrender.

“My dear boy,” Garak calls up, “we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot. I have no intention of harming you.”

“I don’t believe you!”

Garak reaches into his jacket, unclasps his sidearm, and throws it in the grass. Lwaxana hums in approval. He immediately feels its loss like a cold nakedness, but he ignores it. _Be careful,_ Lwaxana tells him. _He’s scared, and he doesn’t know his own strength._

Garak takes the warning to heart. Hands still raised, he walks toward the tree, delicately tiptoeing around the mounds of jettisoned Bajoran fruit. He was wrong; Pela wasn’t deliberately trying to manipulate him by taking the form of a child. This is the fragmented remnants of his psyche, reduced to instinct and self-preservation, manifested in the closest approximation. If there is anything Garak can empathize with, it’s the mind of a frightened child.

In the window, he can see the boy tracking his progress, moba held above his head, waiting. He doesn’t throw it, even when Garak is standing at the foot of the ladder leading up into his lair, his sanctuary.

“Serot,” Garak says. A flicker of surprise passes over the boy’s face. “I won’t harm you. But you must realize that you can’t stay here.”

The boy’s hold on the moba wavers. “I know,” he says, his voice small and uncertain. “I know, but I want, I want to stay here with you.”

“I know you do, but you can’t.”

“ _Why?”_ The boy blinks back tears. “Can’t you learn to like me?”

“My dear, it isn’t a matter of liking! Is that what you think, that I don’t _like_ you?”

“I didn’t like you, at first.”

Garak smiles kindly. “I like you a great deal—” How to put this in terms a splintered consciousness can understand? “I’ve always admired you, but I learned a long time ago that we can’t coexist. We’ll only hurt each other.”

“Like the plomeek soup?”

“More like the tuwaly pie,” Garak says grimly.

The boy lowers the moba and cradles it against his chest. “What, what about Julian?”

“I won’t harm him, either. You have my most sincere word.”

The boy pulls a face at that, wrinkling his miniature, furrowed nose. “Promise.”

“I promise,” Garak says. “I won’t so much as touch him.”

“Swear on it. Swear on your grave.”

“I do.”

“On _Tain’s_ grave.”

“Very well.”

“Swear on Cardassia. Say it. Swear you won’t hurt Julian or Cardassia will blow up.”

Garak stares up at the boy. “On Cardassia, I won’t kill Doctor Bashir.”

The boy beams, grinning ear to ear, victory declared. “Good,” he says.

Garak reaches up, offering a hand. Still smiling, the boy sets aside his projectile and climbs halfway down the ladder. He grabs Garak’s hand.

This time, Garak is prepared for the flood of memories. It flows between them like electric current. The boy shuts his eyes, but Garak only tightens his grip. As images of mundane activities slip past—sipping tea in the Replimat, watching Bashir dress, hand-stitching impossible beadwork—Garak focuses on transporting them into his own mind.

A barrier, Lwaxana said.

Around them, amid the flashes of Pela’s life, Tain’s residence forms anew. Beside him, the boy whimpers; Garak can’t see what memories he’s experiencing, but he can guess. With a whispered word of apology, Garak tugs him down the familiar hallway of his childhood.

The boy makes it four steps, then freezes in place. His eyes fly open, wide and disbelieving as he looks around with dawning horror. “No,” he cries, squirming in Garak’s grasp. “ _Please!_ You said—you promised you wouldn’t hurt me!”

“And I meant every word,” Garak says as he drags the boy along. The door is smaller than he remembers—normal, unassuming, revised to fit an adult paradigm. To the boy, it must look like the gateway to a hellscape. Through his calm, Garak’s simulated pulse races like mad. “It can’t hurt you,” he says.

“No no no,” the boy begs him through tears, “please, I’ll be good, I promise I’ll be good—”

He knows exactly what buttons to push. Garak ignores the curdling in his stomach, ignores Lwaxana’s flinching. He steels himself with the oldest Kardasi anapodoton— _the faster the interrogation—_ and throws the door open. “Do you remember,” Garak says, pushing the boy inside, “what Tain said the first time he locked us in here?”

The boy stumbles into the darkness, breaking the contact between them and severing the flow of memories. The house goes quiet and as the boy turns to look at him, Garak sees his terror, feels the reverberation of his confusion and betrayal.

Garak slams the door and locks it. 

The walls of Tain’s estate wobble and fade.

Then he’s back in the shop, sitting across from Lwaxana. She releases his hand and gives him a long, peculiar look.

Garak doesn’t need to ask if it worked. He can no longer sense the echoes of his counterpart’s emotions. Pela is well and truly buried. “Ambassador,” Garak says, “I can’t begin to express my—”

“Don’t mention it.” There’s a franticness in her eyes, and she just about scrambles out of her chair. She doesn’t quite make it and wobbles on her feet. Garak takes her arm in concern, holding her steady until she regains her balance. “I’m all right,” she says. “Just a little tired, that’s all.”

“You’re trembling! Are you quite sure I can’t get you anything?”

“No, no, don’t trouble yourself. I’ll just go to my quarters and lie down.”

“Shall I have Doctor Bashir meet you there?”

Lwaxana moves to the door, shaking her head with a faint smile as he hovers behind. “You're sweet, but I’m fine, really.”

“Ah, _speaking_ of Doctor Bashir—”

“Please, you needn’t say more. I’m not a fool, Mister Garak. I know what kind of man you are. If I had sensed—even for one hot second—that you ever intended to follow through with it, do you _really_ think I would've volunteered to help you?”

Garak blinks in surprise. He smiles and inclines his head. “Rest well, Ambassador.”

When she’s gone, Garak runs a hand down his own smooth face.

He’s alone. For the first time in weeks, he’s finally alone.

Hours later, in the dead of the station’s artificial night, Garak lets himself into Bashir’s quarters. He finds the doctor naked and facedown in bed, unmoving. For the briefest moment, Garak is sure he’s dead. Killed himself and pinned it on Garak—now wouldn’t that be ironic!

As he drifts closer, Garak spots the shallow rise and fall of breath. Bashir’s limp arm dangles over the side of the bed, his fingers hovering above a discharged hypospray on the floor. Garak shakes his head and draws up the covers to the doctor’s waist.

For a time, he simply studies Bashir’s sleeping face. Peaceful. Fringe of dark hair falling over one eye. Delicate neck. Garak could break it as easily as snapping his fingers, but he’d much rather bite it. How satisfying that would be. Garak brushes the hair out of Bashir’s eye. Strange, how even with his counterpart permanently immured, Garak still feels a connection to him.

“If Tain asked, I _would_ kill you, Doctor.”

That’s a small comfort. Amid the ocean of his failure, he’ll take it.

Garak’s eye travels to the Gamzian wine on the bedside table. “Ah, Doctor,” he tells his unresponsive companion as he plucks the spiraling bottle to examine its label, “one of these days, I _must_ teach you about quality spirits.”

The movement dislodges a red isolinear rod, which begins to roll across the table. Garak catches it before it can fall and, out of habit, holds it to the light of Bashir’s headboard. There’s a sizeable amount of data on it.

Garak glances to Bashir’s slack, unconscious face. Good practice would dictate leaving a decoy copy but, well, he’s retired, and Bashir isn’t likely to miss one isolinear rod in this targ pen he calls living quarters. Garak tucks the rod into a pocket.

Quark’s is closed for the evening, and Garak’s curiosity is not so overwhelming that it needs to be satisfied with a stint of breaking and entering. So he waits. It isn’t until the following afternoon that he has the chance to flee his mountain of alterations and reserve a holosuite.

“You’re in luck,” Quark says. “I just had a cancelation.” He scowls to the other side of the bar, where a couple paws at each other, evidently too interested in their private exploration to require a holographic fantasy. “If you ask me,” he says, “this Gratitude mumbo jumbo is going to everyone’s heads.”

Garak hasn’t engaged in such simulations in years. Holoprograms had their use in the Order—they were marvelously effective at tricking detainees into believing their families had been executed—but other agents relied on them too heavily for Garak’s taste. Nalor had often boasted about the merits of holoprograms; he’d adapted them as a testing ground for his assignments, tailoring programs to ‘safely’ experiment with different strategies, and had dismissed Garak’s warnings that they atrophied skill and led to overconfidence. A point that was, sadly, proven correct.

No computer simulation compares to the little details of cold, hard reality.

Garak stands in the corner of the holosuite’s grid. He doubts Bashir’s program is anything of substance. After all, the Federation is infatuated with its toys and recreational activities. Anything that caters to base desires. Garak can only hope to glean something useful about the doctor’s psyche—a personal, preferably embarrassing tidbit he can lord over Bashir in their next confrontation. “Computer,” he says, “begin program.”

The computer chirps and the holographic surroundings materialize. A bedroom. Not any bedroom, but the bedroom of Bashir’s quarters. Their former, _shared_ quarters.

 _“Cufnu’ajan,”_ Garak hisses under his breath, and before he can stop it, the program initializes.

He should terminate the program. He should turn around and vaporize the datarod to ashes and never think of its contents again. This isn’t an interactive program; it’s intended to be _watched._ Like a play. But unlike a _good,_ morally upright Cardassian play, it doesn’t begin _ab ovo—_ there’s no introduction, no slow building plot. No, it starts _in medias res,_ and Garak doesn’t realize he’s backing away until he bumps into the dresser and knocks something to the floor.

It’s precisely the excuse he needs. He crouches down, groping across the floor like he’s been struck blind, trying not to listen to the whispered words from the bed, the teasing back and forth, the wet noises, subtle creak of the mattress, Bashir moaning his counterpart’s name—

Garak swallows. His left hand lands on something soft and yielding. He looks down. It’s that ratty, faux-furred toy of Bashir’s. An animal? As Garak holds it up, it stares back at him with black beaded eyes. One of them is coming loose.

More wet sucking sounds, followed by more prattling. Garak tries to guess the animal’s species. Cat? The tail is wrong, a sad stub. He runs through a mental list of Terran mammals: dog, horse, bat, weasel. Draws a blank. From the bed, Bashir is cooing and cajoling. Garak recalls a line in _The Taming of the Shrew_ about leading apes in hell. An ape? Garak frowns skeptically at the ears. Surely they’re too high on the head for a human predecessor. Garak gives the creature a vigorous shaking. What _is_ this thing?

A full-throated keening shatters Garak’s distraction. His own voice, begging.

_Get a grip, Elim. You’re being ridiculous!_

From the beginning, he’d known this was a possibility. He craved companionship, and despite Mila’s advice that he eliminate the drive, he didn’t listen. Oh, he was used to depriving himself of all sorts of luxury, but that had felt like a needless cruelty. So he left it. He’d known it was only a matter of time before his counterpart fell into bed with someone; it was the risk he took when willingly surrendering his control, his body, to another person. It was, at its heart, an act of trust.

That isn’t the problem.

Standing, Garak returns the toy to the dresser and smoothes the front of his tunic. He gathers his thoughts. This isn’t any different from the myriad messages and personal recordings he was assigned as a junior probe to peruse and dispassionately evaluate. A game, then. One of them is the dissident. Guilty of sedition. Only, who?

Garak approaches the foot of the bed and, for the first time, forces himself to _look._

His counterpart is flat on his back, hips canted as Bashir kisses him slowly and deeply. Garak’s breath hitches. With a grin, Bashir bows his head, pink tongue flicking as he descends, working his way between his counterpart’s parted thighs. They’re still prattling, even now, but Garak ignores the words, instead focusing on the heat emanating from their bodies, the scent of alien sex, the fondness in Bashir’s eyes mirrored exactly on his counterpart.

They aren’t longtime lovers—there’s still a hesitancy to their gestures, in their glances, a shared uncertainty that comes when exploring boundaries. Yet beneath it is an unfathomable trust, a bond made obvious in every press of Bashir’s smiling lips upon his skin. As his counterpart’s begging grows desperate and shameless, Garak closes his eyes and tamps down the bitterness rising like bile in his throat.

As they make love, Garak circles around, studying the angles. He barely hears his counterpart’s gasps and muffled whimpering. Hardly cares how his own damp tunic is clinging to him. Instead, Garak notes the way Bashir tenderly squeezes his counterpart’s hips. The way his counterpart shyly nuzzles Bashir’s hand. Who is it? Which one could it be?

Bashir’s fingers curl in his counterpart’s hair, forming a tentative fist and jerking him backward so hard that Garak shivers. When he bites his counterpart’s exposed neck, a thrill runs down Garak’s spine, as if Bashir were sinking his teeth into Garak’s own skin.

They’re both guilty.

“Computer, end program.”

The holograms vanish into the air, abandoning him in the black holosuite grid.

He’s striding to the door when another thought occurs. “Computer, who last accessed this program?”

“Doctor Julian Bashir.”

“When?”

“Stardate 48473.2.”

 _Two days ago._ The man has been—

Garak storms out of the holosuite, overtaken by sudden apoplexy. All this time, Bashir has held on to it, used it as his—as his personal—Garak’s rage builds to a shaking incoherency, fringed at the edges in vibrant red.

“Well, that was fast,” Quark says from where he's wiping down a table. “That must've been _some—_ ”

Garak looks at him.

The knowing smirk dies on Quark’s lips and he shrinks back, rag clutched to his chest. He stares at Garak like an animal debating its instincts. Then self-preservation takes over. The Ferengi turns and scurries away.

Forget stratagem. Forget covering his tracks. Not only will he kill Bashir, he’s going to eliminate his family. He’s going to find a temporal anomaly, go back in time, and wipe out Bashir’s ancestors. He’ll _relish_ a lifetime in Gallitep if it means—

“Enjoy yourself?” a prim, infuriatingly _smug_ voice pipes up, and Garak whirls around to find Bashir grinning wide, a radiant showcase of teeth. Bashir pushes off the wall and slinks closer with a flutter of his eyelashes. “I thought so. Feel free to keep the file, Garak. I made my own copies.”

Garak inhales deeply and forcefully unclenches his fists. “ _You_ ,” he hisses, livid, rounding on the human until he’s invading his space, “you _left_ that, that _obscenity_ for me to find!”

“Serves you right,” Bashir says, meeting Garak glare without flinching. “I had a feeling you’d break into my quarters. You just can’t help yourself, can you?” Bashir leans forward and lowers his voice. “You’re obsessed with me.”

“With you?” Garak sputters a laugh at the utter absurdity of the notion. “You flatter yourself!”

Bashir whispers in his ear, drawing out each syllable. “Liar, liar.”

Garak denies it, mouth running through disavowals as his mind seizes on more important matters. They draw closer, as if pulled together on invisible strings, and Garak doesn’t resist it. “I often forget you exist,” he’s babbling, a compound fracture of lies, his hands settling on Bashir’s hips, and he sighs as he feels Bashir’s arms circle around him.

“You feel it,” Bashir says.

“Yes,” Garak says.

“You’ve felt it all along.” Bashir presses against him, clinging really, laughing softly. “Haven’t you?”

It’s no use. Garak nods minutely, his voice hoarse as he whispers, “Yes.”

And then he’s lost, nuzzling Bashir’s neck and inhaling his heady alien scent. He grunts as Bashir works his cold hands beneath his tunic. A voice, growing ever fainter, warns that this isn’t right—they’re in _public_ —but he can’t pull away. Not yet, not when he’s so close. Garak remembers, weeks ago, when Bashir had mistakenly kissed him. He remembers, last night, when he’d reflected on how it would feel to sink his teeth into Bashir’s neck. “Do you know,” he murmurs, tugging on Bashir’s collar, “what _ja’lat_ means, Doctor?”

Bashir’s voice is muffled, almost dazed, against Garak’s shoulder. “It’s a beloved person . . . something like _my dear.”_

“That’s only the literal definition. It’s much more—” Garak pushes Bashir away and scowls at him. “What did you give me? Another one of your hypospray cocktails?”

“You know damn well that I didn’t. I feel it too, remember?”

“Don’t deny your devious nature, Doctor,” Garak says, caressing the soft skin along Bashir’s temple with a finger. “You’d drug yourself if it suited your purposes.”

Instead of refuting the accusation as Garak expects, Bashir captures Garak’s finger in his mouth, sucking it down to the root, eyes twinkling with mischief as Garak gasps.

 _Fathers of Cardassia,_ he’s good at that. Bashir swirls his tongue, and the sight of it is making Garak’s knees weak.

Bashir withdraws, lips lingering on Garak’s fingertip. “Wrong again, Garak,” he says. “But if this is so awful for you, why don’t you let me go?”

A challenge. Growling deep in his throat, Garak takes Bashir’s face in his hands, tracing the soft curves of Bashir’s lips with his thumbs. Bashir’s eyes flutter closed as he leans into the caress. Oh, the things Garak could do with this mouth. He’ll please his human so thoroughly, satisfy him until he forgets his counterpart ever _existed_. The longing is painful, a wanting more madness than lust. With a groan of distress, Garak pushes him away again.

He turns and runs.

“Gar _ak!”_

As Garak flees the bar and rushes down the Promenade, he can hear Bashir calling after him, giving chase. In the blur, he catches glimpses of others caught in the heat of similar lunacy.

Then, ahead, he spots Constable Odo trying unsuccessfully to break up one such amorous pair. Garak slows just enough for a pleasant nod, but Odo is already looking past him. At his pursuer.

Odo intercepts Bashir with a stern “I’ve been trying to reach you on the comm for five minutes, Doctor. Where were you?” while Bashir loudly protests. Garak smiles over his shoulder and bustles away.

The compact walls of Garak’s quarters are not enough to restrain his frenzied thoughts. He paces, clenching and unclenching his fists. _Control._ He’s a Cardassian, and he will not, under any circumstances, break down his door to go chasing after that human. There’s no denying that he’s been brought low, but he won’t pick after his counterpart’s leavings like a desperate scavenger. No, he won’t. No matter how skilled Bashir is with his mouth, or his gentle hands with their secret strength. Not to mention that cheerful little cock of his.

Garak wipes sweat off his brow and winces. He’s shaking now, and if he doesn’t do something soon, he might lose his mind. Perhaps there’s another way to stave off this fever. Bottaquey—but no, that only introduces more complications. If the ensign isn’t already afflicted, and assuming it’s somehow contagious, it would be cruel to infect them with such an unpleasant malady.

Again, his eyes flick to the door, his strength wavering. He’s running low on options.

Decisively, Garak throws open a desk drawer and pries out the false bottom. He retrieves the Starfleet-issue phaser and adjusts its setting from kill to its second-lowest stun. It’ll be incredibly painful at this short distance, but as they say: desperate times.

It burns, but he’s out before the implant even has a chance to trigger.

When he rouses, Garak groggily blinks at the ceiling and stifles a groan. He tries to sit up, but a hand gently pushes him back to the floor. “Easy,” Bashir says. “I still have one last hypospray.”

Garak turns his face from the bright overhead lights. “What are you doing to me now?” he snaps. It sounds more like a whine than the impressive snarl he intended.

Bashir takes his rudeness in stride. “Administering a painkiller. It seems you and half the station were under the influence of Zanthi fever. It’s a virus that causes mature Betazoids to project their emotions onto others.” A hiss of the hypospray, followed by a sensation of relief in Garak’s skull. “I saw you and Ambassador Troi together at Quark’s . . .”

It takes a moment for Garak’s enfeebled wits to follow Bashir’s insinuation. “I would hardly describe her emotions toward me as _amorous,_ Doctor.”

“Ah.” Bashir snaps his tricorder closed with the hint of a smile. “Maybe it was her husband? Then again, I did see her chasing after Odo like a lovesick teenager.”

“That must be it,” Garak says, distracted by Bashir’s hand on his arm. “Is there an antidote?”

“I gave Mrs. Troi an antiviral. Don’t worry, Garak, you should be back to your old self in a day or two. As for this—” Bashir holds up the phaser by its handle and raises a brow. “Bit overkill, don’t you think?”

Garak snatches it away. “Effective,” he corrects.

“Odo can have you thrown back in Gallitep if he catches you with that.”

“Then why don’t you turn me in?”

“You know I won’t. I can’t—”

“Doctor—”

“Garak,” Bashir says. “We need to talk about this. None of this would’ve happened if there wasn’t a pre-existing attraction—”

“Doctor.”

Bashir lifts his eyes. “Yes?”

“Get. Out.”

Bashir’s face falls into a mask. With fast, practiced clicks, he packs away his medical equipment and leaves without another word, abandoning Garak to the cold silence of his quarters and his own nagging thoughts.

That evening, when he’s recovered enough to venture out, Garak stands beside Major Kira on the Promenade, warmed by the flickering blue flame of the brazier. He can’t remember the last time he indulged in the simple pleasure of paper, and Garak takes his time with his lettering, getting every word right.

To the major’s vocal disapproval. “You realize you’re going to _burn_ it, right?” She sneaks a peek over his shoulder. “I’ve never seen that word before. What does it mean?”

“My dear,” Garak says, softening his jibe with a smile, “I wouldn’t presume to educate you on your own language.”

Kira matches his wry tone. “Sorry, they didn’t teach classical Bajoran in the work camps.”

Point well taken. “To put it simply, it means _to petition.”_

Finished with his task, Garak rolls the renewal scroll into a tight tube and follows Kira’s lead to the brazier. She holds her own scroll to the flame, turning the paper as it curls and blackens. She nods to Garak and he follows suit, letting the fire consume his petty and insignificant list of problems.

Garak tracks the trail of smoke upward. He watches it drift along the Promenade, spiraling past the Replimat and the security office, past Quark’s and his own shop before—Garak likes to imagine—ultimately dissipating outside the infirmary.


	13. Chapter 13

The so-called Badlands are a yellow-and-blue swirl of electric color on the raider’s subsystems, and Garak silently thanks Cardassia’s singular star that their heading won’t take them inside it. The last time he’d seen fit to journey into the region, he’d barely emerged with his life.

But the Badlands are much less enchanting than the sight of Bashir—face unshaven, his long, dark hair a tangled mess at his shoulders—playing the part of a Maquis terrorist. The doctor had possessed the gall to complain about the quality of the stitching on his disguise, obliquely accusing Garak of botching the outfit out of spite. If he’d been a Cardassian, Garak would’ve interpreted such exaggerated offense as flirtation. Instead Garak had brushed it off, assuring Bashir that his outfit was quite sturdy. Its threadbare appearance was merely a trick of clever tailoring.

Despite Bashir’s complaints, Garak catches him primping in the laminate surface of the raider’s controls, smoothing the front of his vest and admiring his bedraggled appearance. It suits him, Garak decides with a private smile.

At the conn, Kira shakes her head. Her own hair has been artificially lengthened to a comely bob, though Garak hasn’t seen her once stop to appreciate how it softens her features. “Bashir,” she says, “could you stop preening for five minutes and help me with these calculations?”

“I’m not preening.” Bashir twists in his seat and frowns. “Why? Does it look bad?”

“It’s fine—”

Bashir seems to take the faint praise as enthusiasm. He glances at his reflection again, one hand going to his hair. “Now that you mention it, I’m thinking about keeping it around after the mission’s over.”

Kira opens and closes her mouth. “Hold on a second, let’s not get carried away—”

As they descend into a good-natured squabble, Garak examines a datapadd containing their falsified transit documents, checking and double-checking for any flaws with the forgeries. If he were to make an escape back to Cardassia, now would be the time to usurp control of the raider: when their backs are turned and the  _Defiant_ is out of range.

It had been on the forefront of his mind, weeks ago, when Commander Sisko had made his offer on behalf of Starfleet and the Bajoran Provisional Government. “We all agree,” Sisko had said, “the Maquis are a security threat standing in the way of peace between the Federation and Cardassia. It’s in everyone’s interest that they’re dealt with.”

And who was Garak to argue with such sweetly spoken sentiments of peace? Especially when they came with the blessing of the Bajoran Minister of State and a temporary lifting of the terms of his parole? Yet he’d made a pretense of balking, explaining to the commander that he simply  _couldn’t_ leave his shop for an indeterminate amount of time. Besides, he’d been out of the game for so long, he wouldn’t know which way to point a phaser. Sisko had stopped playing with his baseball, his jaw set tightly with impatience while Garak continued on, offended that Starfleet would  _assume_ he was eager for any excuse to cut loose, as if all Cardassians were cut from the same bellicose cloth! Is that what these humans thought of him?

Of course, Garak had little chance of cultivating a harmless tailor persona, but he had to find his amusement  _somewhere_.

Suddenly Bashir turns from his console. “While we’re on the subject,” he says, cutting off Garak’s reverie, “we’d better take care of your implant.”

“My implant?” Garak asks. Then he remembers. Yes, Sisko had tasked Bashir with reverse engineering and replicating Timot’s implants—the ones that Bashir and Parmak had removed while his counterpart was still in Odo’s brig. Garak didn’t think Bashir would succeed. Timot had been one of the Order’s best scientists, after all, but once again Bashir has surprised him. A pesky habit of his.

“Is now a good time?” Bashir says tartly.

Garak makes an expansive gesture. “I’m all yours, Doctor.”

“We won’t be long,” Bashir tells Kira and retrieves his medical bag. He leads Garak to the back of the raider and draws back a curtain to reveal a battered and threadbare biobed. “Hop up,” he says, giving the uninviting cushion a pat.

As Garak sits, he grimaces at a purple and orange dressing gown folded over the bed. “I hope you don’t intend to have me wear this monstrosity.”

Bashir reaches for an oblong-shaped device lying on a nearby cart. “Only if you want to,” he says with a smile.

“I thank you for the generous offer, but I think I’ll pass.”

“Suit yourself. I rather like the colors.”

“I see being in close proximity to a tailor did nothing to improve your sense of taste.”

“Funny you should say that, Garak, considering Serot’s the one who designed it.”

For a brief, horrific moment, Garak believes him. He isn’t sure whether the gown has become incrementally more attractive, or if his respect for his counterpart’s tailoring abilities has taken a hit from which it can never recover. Then he notices the glint of mischief in Bashir’s eyes and tilts his head. “Why, Doctor. There may be hope for you yet.”

There’s a click of metal as Bashir snaps back the device’s plunger. “Roll up your right sleeve, please.”

Garak hesitates. “Assuming this works—”

“It’ll work, Garak.”

“—I’ll be able to pass as a Bajoran under most scans?”

“Nobody will be the wiser. Assuming they don’t see you naked, that is.”

Garak widens his eyes. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Great. Now—”

“How long will it last?”

“The subdermal implant?” Bashir looks down at his medical device thoughtfully. “Forty-seven days, give or take a few hours. After that, it’ll begin to dissolve. It’s all perfectly harmless. Come on, Garak. Stop stalling.”

“Doctor, my questions are perfectly reasonable.”

Bashir wiggles the device between his fingers. “It won’t hurt. I promise. If it does, we’ll have to rethink your reputation as a hardened Cardassian spy, won’t we?”

“Or your qualifications as a physician,” Garak sniffs.

Bashir’s smile is at its most charming, but Garak detects the brittleness of its honesty. “Don’t worry, Garak. It isn’t any worse than pricking yourself with a needle.”

Garak expects Bashir to be more rough than necessary, but he handles Garak as gently as he would a child. He hardly feels the jab of the implant sliding beneath his skin.  _Perhaps_ , Garak reflects as Bashir scans him with a tricorder and deems everything in working order,  _he’s not as petty as that._

It’s several more hours before their raider closes in on the location of Terikof II—the Maquis outpost responsible for the destruction of Opek Nor, if Starfleet and Cardassian intelligence are to be believed. As the white crescent of the planet fills the windows, the comm crackles with the first hail from the surface.

Kira nods to Bashir and opens a channel, falling into her role exactly as rehearsed. She chats pleasantly with the Maquis security officer on the other end, her voice exuding relief. When he temporarily cuts the comm to examine their transmitted documents, Bashir worries his lower lip between thumb and forefinger. Garak passes his sewing wand over the blouse in his lap, unconcerned.

Kira’s fingers drum against the console, keeping time until the officer’s voice bursts through the speakers ten minutes later, granting them permission to land. Bashir releases a gust of breath.

“That was the easy part, Doctor,” Garak says, observing their descent through the planet’s thick atmosphere and across endless snow-capped mountains. Forging documents capable of fooling the Maquis had been child’s play. Convincing them that they’re fellow Maquis, however, will be the real challenge.

The moment they touch down in the hangar, a swarm of Maquis surrounds their raider with phasers drawn. Bashir readies his medical bag. “Should we be concerned?”

“They’re jumpy,” Kira says. “Can’t say that I blame them.” She pushes an errant strand of hair out of her eyes and nods. “Let’s go.”

An arctic chill blows through the hangar’s open bay. Hunching forward, Garak pulls his jacket tighter and follows Kira to where the Maquis are gathered. The cell’s leader, a human woman with a tattoo over her left eye, stands rigidly at the center. As they approach, she brusquely shakes their hands and introduces herself simply as Chakotay. “And this is my second in command, Tom Paris,” she says, indicating the human man behind her. “I’m sorry for the gruff welcome, but you can never be too careful.” She looks at Garak and smiles slightly. “Cold? Come, we’ll talk inside. If it’s any consolation, you get used to it.”

Garak doubts that, but he appreciates the opportunity to flee the elements nonetheless. The interior of the Maquis base isn’t much warmer. Chakotay marches them through the corridors, accompanied by two guards. “Tom tells me you’re from Marva IV. I didn’t think anyone survived the bombardment.”

“We were lucky,” Kira says. “We were on patrol when it happened.”

“In fact,” Garak adds, “we were tracking the whereabouts of the Fourth Order. Ironic, isn’t it?”

Chakotay shakes her head. “And when you got back, they’d wiped out the settlement. I’ve heard too many stories like yours. The damned Cardassians are getting desperate and more aggressive by the day. The damage to your raider—did you try to take them on yourselves?”

“We lost a lot of good people trying,” Kira says.

There’s a gleam of admiration in Chakotay’s eyes. “I’ll have my engineer take care of your ship. You know, an old Academy friend of mine was stationed on Marva IV. Sveta. She was the one who convinced me to join the Maquis.”

“I’m sorry,” Kira says.

“Don’t be. I’m glad at least someone made it out of there.” She pauses and looks over at Bashir. “You’ve been pretty quiet. Lawrence, is it?”

“Yessir,” Bashir says.

“You’re a doctor, aren’t you?”

“Formerly, yes. I’m not licensed to practice medicine anymore.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that. Long as you can heal phaser burns and treat depression, nobody will be asking for your credentials.”

Just then, a stream of children run screaming past, kicking a red ball down the corridor and nearly taking Garak out by the legs. Before he can even register what’s happened, the chaos has passed, an echo of giggling fading around the corner. “Better watch out for the little ones,” Chakotay says, grinning at him, “they’ll bite your ankles.”

She brings them to a cramped, secluded office that seems to double as a briefing room. Pushing datapadds to the corner of the table, she invites them to sit and lightly, skillfully, begins to grill them on their backgrounds. Where they came from, why they joined the Maquis. Garak had, of course, anticipated this. The woman leads one of the most successful cells in the Maquis; even if the organization is composed of misguided malcontents, traitors, and has-beens with aspirations of glory, she is far from stupid.

Garak is pleased with Kira and Bashir’s performance. They have an answer for each of Chakotay’s questions, going into detail about what their duties were and whom they trained with. By the end, he’s especially impressed with Bashir. The man plays the part of disgraced Federation doctor as if it were a second skin, throwing in heartfelt embellishments that make the lie all the more believable.

As for Garak, he might’ve only recently learned of the existence of the Maquis, but falling into the role of Norik Yalis, Bajoran resistance fighter turned Maquis terrorist, is not the greatest stretch he’s taken in his career. To express disdain for his own people is a discomfort he can bear, at least in the short term. Some of his resentment toward the Union’s powers-that-be might even be genuine.

For her part, Chakotay seems to swallow their story. She shows particular interest in Bashir, nodding in reassurance whenever he speaks. At the end of their interrogation, she grasps his hand and asks him to report to sickbay the following morning. Then she calls in her second in command and orders him to “show them the sights.”

Garak isn’t sure what to make of Tom Paris. If Chakotay is a study in military discipline, he’s her foil. His clothes are ill-fitting—baggy in the oddest of places—and whenever he pauses to think, he scratches beneath his nest of a beard and winces as if there’s something alive in there, rudely biting him.

As Paris escorts them through the derelict base, he makes a sweeping gesture toward the mess hall and boasts, “Our master chef makes a mean  _coq au vin,_ ” drawing a polite laugh from Bashir. “It’s, uh, French,” Paris explains when Garak and Kira exchange a frown. “Oh, you’ll like this next part,” he says, leading them to a dingy, tiled room. Rivulets of water rush down its sloped floors to a single drain clogged with gray spume. “I hope you hate privacy because boy do I have a treat for you.”

There’s a Bolian man bathing alongside an Andorian woman. Garak feels a sinking in his stomach. He hadn’t quite anticipated this level of decrepitude. Even Bamarran, with all its lessons in breaking down the individual in service of the state, had the decency to equip its showers with stalls.

Kira brushes his arm. When Garak looks over, she and Bashir give him a mirrored look of solidarity:  _We’ll think of something._

“Impressed yet? We’re getting close to my favorite part of the tour. The  _pièce de résistance_.” Paris winks in Kira’s direction. “The master bedroom.”

That is nothing more than a dormitory filled with rows of bunks, some of them currently occupied. The room has a wet mustiness to it, the kind of odor that would make him gag if he dared taste the air. “We saw worse in the resistance,” Kira remarks, pointedly glancing in Garak’s direction.

He picks up the thread. “Mm. Let’s hope there are fewer Cardassians patrolling around.”

“Well, at least we’ve got that going for us,” Paris says. As he walks on, his eyes settle on Kira and linger. “You know, Ilya, I always had a thing for Bajorans.”

Her glare could wither the buds of a Vulcan cactus. “Is that so?”

“I’m  _so_  pleased to hear that,” adds Garak sweetly. In his periphery, Bashir shakes his head.

Paris twists around to scowl at him. “ _Lady_ Bajorans,” he says.

When Paris returns to his foolhardy attempt at flirtation, Bashir sidles up to Garak and drops his voice. “Keep a close eye on that one,” he says.

They’re on the same page, then. Garak is sure the major has the situation well under control; if he were a betting man, he’d wager his savings on soon finding Tom Paris sprawled on the floor with a boot to his throat. Still, one can never be too careful.

That evening they share an approximation of dinner in the mess hall. Garak doesn’t mind the rations; he’s long grown accustomed to finding his meals unsatisfying. In his opinion, the rehydrated fish is indistinguishable from what he’d find on the menu on any Federation replicator. But Kira and Bashir pick at their allotment of slop, silently commiserating, while Maquis footsoldiers wander to their table, peppering the ‘newcomers’ with questions. They are a tight-knit, gossipy bunch, these Maquis.

All the better. Garak commits every name and face and voice to memory.

Much later, when the outpost is finally quiet with each adult and child tucked away in their bunks, the three of them creep through the hallways and reconnoiter around the now-deserted shower room. They assume their positions. Bashir takes the doorway, facing out. Kira: the corridor. Inside, Garak scrubs himself with rapid swipes of a washcloth, lukewarm water spraying his face, and reflects that this is, without a doubt, the most pitiful operation he’s performed in his career. If Tain could see him now, he’d laugh himself dead. Within two minutes, Garak’s done washing. Within four, he’s dried and dressed. Quick, efficient showers are another travesty he’s learned to endure out of necessity.

Chakotay puts them to work the next morning, issuing each of them a weapon and a list of duties. As anticipated, Bashir is carted off to sickbay, where he’ll be able to freely monitor both the composition and status of the Maquis stationed throughout the outpost. It’s a critical assignment—one Garak hopes Bashir doesn’t botch with his quaint Federation ethics.

Meanwhile, he and Kira are assigned to assist the head engineer, a curt but otherwise capable Klingon hybrid, in repairing the damage to their raider. They work for hours in the open hangar, wind and flecks of snow buffeting them through the rows of commandeered ships. Garak takes mental note of the other engineers, of the models and origins of the vessels, of the tools that cross his path. Anything to keep his mind off the infernal chill. The cold stiffens his fingers and slows him down, making his attempts to tighten this nut or that stem bolt clumsy. He catches himself shivering, but he doesn’t breathe a word of complaint.

At the end of the day, Garak waits at one of the four locations he’s identified as suitably secluded. This one is a storage unit piled with toiletries and other sundries. Kira arrives first, followed by Bashir minutes later. As Kira begins their little conference, Garak rubs the cold from his fingers, glad to finally be warm again. He can feel Bashir watching him closely, as if he’s tempted to grab Garak’s hands and blow on them. What a stirring thought.

“And what about you, Doctor?” Garak asks once he’s finished his own report. “Anything of interest transpire in sickbay?”

“Nothing beyond a few scraped knees.” Bashir’s gaze wanders. He smiles. “They have a lot of children.”

Garak has noticed. Despicable, keeping noncombatants so close. Cardassians would never house their civilians alongside active soldiers. Garak suppresses a shiver and rubs his fingers again. “Hardly a useful observation.”

“Terribly sorry,” Bashir snaps. “I’ll try better tomorrow.” His eyes fall to Garak’s hands again and he huffs impatiently. “Why didn’t you  _tell_  B’Elanna that you’re cold?”

“Oh, I’m sure she’d be most impressed with my whining.”

“It’s not whining! It’s in her best interest that you not freeze to death. She’ll have you moved—”

“First of all, I don’t want the scrutiny. Secondly, as you can see,” Garak gestures to Kira, “our dear Ilya is unaffected by the cold.”

“All species have varying sensitivities to temperature. It’ll be more suspicious if you go catatonic from hypothermia.”

“Then I should be grateful you’re in sickbay, hmm?”

“That’s  _not_ funny.”

“Rest assured, I’ll be fine.”

“Like hell—”

“Lawrence,” Kira cuts in. “He’s right.”

Bashir sighs. He raises his palms in defeat. “Have it your way.”  _Freeze, for all I care,_ his pout silently adds.

Garak does manage to procure a pair of fine gloves from a drowsing Maquis, just in time for his next shift in the hangar. He needs them more than their original owner, after all. And they do an admirable job at fending off the cold. If only he had a matching hat and scarf, he might find the cold both tolerable and fashionable.

Along with their official assignments, all Maquis are required to perform a requisite number of ‘chores’ each day. “I’m surprised you’re doing this,” Kira tells him as they’re clearing the refuse receptacles. When Garak only lifts an eyebrow, she elaborates, “I expected you to act like, I don’t know, this type of thing is below you.”

“Ah. My life hasn’t been  _nearly_  as glamorous as you may think.”

She nods slowly. Finished with the corridor, they move on to the mess hall. “So,” she says presently, “you and Lawrence.”

Garak pauses, arm halfway in a canister. He keeps his voice neutral. The walls have ears, always. “Yes, what about him?”

She snorts. “ _What about him._  Hand me that bag, will you? You know, when Lawrence joined the Maquis, he told me right to my face that he wanted to practice _’_ frontier medicine.’ He called my home the wilderness, like this was an exotic adventure and he wanted to be a hero. I couldn’t stand him either, at first. He was arrogant. And annoying.”

“You’ll get no objections from me on that front.”

“Give him some credit. Maybe he joined for the wrong reasons, but he’s grown up a lot since then. Sometimes idealism is a good thing.” She shrugs. “I like that about him. And I think you do, too.”

“Really, my dear, of all people—”

“But he’s only a human. He can’t tell you’re flirting with him.”

“Oh? Is that what I’m doing?”

“You know damn well what you’re doing. He can’t help it if he’s oblivious.”

“Speaking of oblivious,” Garak says, closing a lid and pushing the cart to the next bin, “what about you and a certain security officer?”

Trash crunches in Kira’s fist as she works. “Who, _Suder?”_  Her frown deepens with a distaste unconnected to the scraps of filth in her hands. “The creepy one?”

Garak rolls his eyes. They’ve encountered the Maquis security chief twice, at most.  _Of course_ he doesn’t mean Suder. “Try again.”

She continues to puzzle it over. Then realization dawns. She gapes at him and mouths, “ _Odo?”_

“Surely you’ve noticed he’s quite taken with you.”

“That’s crazy! We’re friends!”

As Garak launches into his explanation—the fond looks, his jealousy whenever spotting her with another man—she listens avidly. Skeptically, but avidly, as if unable to believe the mountain of evidence. Most importantly, the subject of Doctor Julian Bashir falls to the wayside, lost in her denials.  _My apologies,_   _Constable_ , Garak mentally transmits across star systems,  _but this is for the greater good._

The following evening, B’Elanna has them crouched on the floor of Suder’s security office, examining the magnetic shield generator. After an hour, they still haven’t pinpointed the source of the problem. “Chakotay’s going to kill me if this stays down another half hour,” B’Elanna mutters. “Did you check the EPS flow regulator?”

“It’s in perfect working order,” Garak says.

“Damn, damn, damn. How am I supposed to work with all this  _junk?”_

B’Elanna grabs an isolinear phase inverter and squeezes half her body into the heart of the generator’s circuitry. Garak glances over his shoulder. Suder and his guards stand in a semi-circle, observing their progress. Kira meets his eye, and Garak easily reads the concern written over her face.

The magnetic shield is the Maquis’ most vital defense, protecting the outpost in a field that extends over six kilometers in all directions. The shield generator is critically situated in the center of the compound, constantly under armed guard. If circumstances were optimal, Garak is confident he could bypass Suder’s security and lower the magnetic shield himself.  _If circumstances were optimal, Elim, you’d be ten years younger and more nimble._ Even so, they would have to time the  _Defiant’s_ arrival perfectly, ensuring that they were beamed away before Chakotay alerted the entire outpost of the sabotage. While Bashir might be fully capable of mentally calculating the safest strategy for pulling off such a  _daring_  escape, Garak doubts the good doctor would ever admit to it.

No, he’ll have to think of something else. A field-resonant pulse, perhaps, configured to the right frequency—although that would require constructing a rather complex device.

They fiddle with the generator for some time, B’Elanna growing more anxious with each passing minute until, at last, she pries out an emitter coil. She grins and holds it out to Kira. “Check the polarity.”

Kira verifies the readings. “Off by two percent.”

B’Elanna resets the polarity and within moments the shield generator is running again. She celebrates by crowing, “Yes!” and slapping Kira on the back so hard the major drops her flux coupler. Kira turns and glowers at her. “Sorry,” B’Elanna says. “I get carried away sometimes. Well, we did it, and with four minutes to spare. This calls for a celebration. You two drink?”

Garak wouldn’t have pegged the Klingon to be fond of single malt scotch. As they huddle together in the hangar, he holds the glass loosely between his fingers, keeping it out of smelling range, and tips its contents into Kira’s glass whenever B’Elanna isn’t looking. That earns him more than one dirty look from the major.

“I want to show you something,” B’Elanna says. She takes a long gulp from the bottle and waves for them to follow. They take an open lift—one Garak has passed many times but hasn’t had the opportunity to investigate unescorted—and the Klingon slams her palm against a button. The lift shudders and descends. And descends.

Garak tightens his grip on the railing as they fly past walls upon walls of rock. Wherever they’re going, it’s deep within the planet’s surface. After several long minutes of the swaying creak of steel, the lift mercifully stops, bringing them to a dark and damp tunnel.

“This way,” B’Elanna says.

The tunnel opens into a massive cavern lit with blue sconces. Garak has to fully tilt his head to glimpse the ceiling a mile above them. “We think the planet’s former occupants used this as a hangar,” B’Elanna explains, gesturing at their surroundings as she leads them further inside. “You can’t see it from here, but there’s a hatchway up there. Whatever they were keeping in here, it had to be big. But that’s not what I want to show you.” Five paces later, she stops at a railing and points. “ _That_ is.”

Garak recognizes the design, sure as if it had been stamped on the craft’s hull. His mind is already turning with questions, a hundred incredulous iterations of  _how?_ while beside him Kira shrugs, and asks, “What is it?”

Garak is the first to answer. “A Cardassian missile,” he says.

* * *

That night, while the rest of the dormitory sleeps, Garak clutches the thin, scratchy bed sheet to his chest and thinks. “Dreadnought,” the Klingon had called it. An unstoppable tactical missile armed with enough matter and antimatter to obliterate a small moon. One of the most sophisticated weapons Garak has ever seen, and the Maquis have reprogrammed it.  _Changed its identity,_ she’d said. “When I’m done with my modifications,” B’Elanna had boasted, “the Cardassians won’t know what hit them.”

An effective form of terrorism. Befitting, arguably. Bespoke punishment. Misdeeds coming home to roost.

Unwillingly, he’s dragged into the depths of sleep. It must be a nightmare that shocks him awake because next he’s sitting up, trembling and covered in sweat, images flashing before him in rapidly fading fragments. Scattered sentences in Bajoran and Federation Standard. Scales on the backs of his hands. He’d been a Cardassian again, but not quite.

 _I changed its identity,_ she’d said.

Bile threatens to fill his throat. Garak ducks his head between his knees and tries to breathe. Oh, that is a most  _unpleasant_ sensation.

From the bunk above, a voice whispers his false name. When Garak doesn’t respond, there’s a rustle of fabric, followed by a dip in the bed beside him. A small hand finds his shoulder.

“I’m fine,” he murmurs, but he fears it comes out as slurred gibberish.

_An agent of the Order has no ego. He has no self. His desires are nothing to the will of the Union._

There’s the squeak of a cap coming unscrewed. A canteen is pressed into his hands. Garak nods his thanks and drinks.

_An agent of the Order has no ego. He has no self. His desires are nothing to the will of the Union. No personal or familial loyalties come before his defense of Cardassia._

“Go back to sleep,” Kira says.

Garak moves to comply. In the corner of his eye, he notices Bashir awake in the neighboring bunk, worrying his lower lip with his teeth. Watching him.

The days pass seamlessly, winding down to the end of three weeks. Garak keeps the date tucked away as he formulates an exit plan, the steps for returning them to the safety of the  _Defiant_ the same as their agreed-upon strategy, save for some minor adjustments.

One afternoon, as Garak is heading to the mess hall for another unpalatable meal, he catches the beginning of an argument floating in the air alongside the odor of overcooked cabbage. That isn’t surprising; the Maquis are as fond of squabbling as the Ferengi are of latinum. Sadly, it’s a far cry from the verbal parrying found on Cardassia. Maquis bickering lacks art and often ends with someone flying over a table rather than calmly bowing to a superior argument. Garak rolls his eyes and prepares to plot a safe path through the brawl. To think, these people are considered an imminent threat to Cardassia.

“That’s not what I said,” Bashir cuts in. “You’re twisting my words around!”

The distress in his voice seizes Garak’s attention. Alarmed, Garak circles around to the mess hall’s adjoining storage room and slips inside. From the shadows of the doorway, he has a perfect view of the budding altercation. Bashir stands beside a table, hands placating, his tray of half-eaten food abandoned. He’s close enough that Garak could reach out and touch him. If he were so inclined.

Tom Paris closes the distance between them. “Are you calling me a liar?”

A susurrus of jeers and provocations from the surrounding tables. Bashir regards Paris incredulously. “I didn’t mean anything by it. It sure as hell doesn’t warrant this level of schoolyard bullying.”

“Oh.” Paris rocks back on his heels and gives an exaggerated nod. “So now you think I’m a bully.”

“Well, you know what they say. If it walks like a duck, talks like a duck—”

“Maybe it’s the accent, but I can’t help but pick up a snooty vibe off you, like you think you’re better than everyone else. That might’ve flown back on Marva IV, but that’s not how it works here.”

That remark sends Garak on high alert. For his part, Bashir has moved past disbelief to matching Paris’ posturing. Surely he’s realized that this is a test, a primitive but effective Maquis tactic to suss out that he’s ‘one of them.’ To solve a personal dispute with violence is unheard of on Cardassia. But here, it’s the only way this will end.

Bashir isn’t backing down. He raises his voice, and the two humans exchange more words, the actual substance trivial. They may as well be grunting. All that matters is tone, the squaring of shoulders, and unbreakable eye contact. Garak’s eyes follow them as they snipe back and forth like a pair of rabid voles until finally Bashir snaps, “ _Dammit,_ what on Earth do you  _want_ from me?”

“To start? An apology would be nice.”

“Oh, is that all?” Bashir scoffs. “Don’t hold your breath!”

The human has lost his mind.

“Then maybe you’d rather settle this the Maquis way,” Paris says, advancing until he and Bashir are chest-to-chest. “Unless,” he says, “you have a lingering Starfleet hangup about violence.”

The scuffle is fast. Around them, the mess hall erupts into roars of encouragement. Fists thump on tables, joining indistinct shouts of “get him, get him!” while someone throws a handful of slop into the fray. Shoving turns to dancing and weaving. Garak watches, fascinated, his intention to intervene forgotten. Not that Bashir needs his assistance. After a blur of thrown elbows and grappling, the good doctor cracks Paris in the jaw, knocking him to the floor.

The spectators quiet to a smattering of applause and hushed curses.

Paris rolls onto his side, groaning. Above him, Bashir straightens his tunic, brushes a clump of mashed vegetable from his sleeve, and crouches down to inspect his handiwork. “Come see me in sickbay,” he says smoothly, “and I’ll take care of that ghastly bruise for you.”

Then he’s pushing past the crowd. He hurries out of the mess hall, cradling his hand. After waiting a few seconds for the onlookers to clear, Garak chases after him.

“Ah, Doctor!” he calls, catching up. “I had a feeling that our friend Tom would end up laid out on the floor, but I never would’ve guessed you’d be the one to do it! You have a commendable right hook.”

Bashir winces but doesn’t slow his long-legged strides down the corridor. “You saw that? Why didn’t you do something?”

“There was no need. You seemed to have the situation well in hand.”

Bashir looks at him askance. “Was that a pun?”

It was, but Garak would never admit to such a base form of humor. “Merely a common Bajoran colloquialism. I believe it translates neatly into Standard.”

“I don’t have time for this.” Bashir’s voice quavers and he quickens his pace until Garak can’t keep up without breaking into a run. “I have to get back to sickbay.”

Garak slows to a stop and watches him go.

The doctor might not be as innocent and naïve as he lets on, but he’s far too gentle for this game. Garak is familiar enough with that look in Bashir’s eyes to know its meaning: that fight, necessary as it was, has shaken him. Garak will have to keep Bashir out of harm’s way in case his next brawl with the Maquis doesn’t end so happily.

Thankfully, Bashir’s exceptional performance seems to have proven to the Maquis that he’s embraced their customs as his own. There are no follow-up hazings. No hints of skepticism. According to Kira, Tom Paris has even apologized to Bashir for starting the squabble. How big of him. What an agreeable family they’ve become.

But as with most covert operations, such camaraderie is achieved only at the end, when they have no more use for it. They’ve collected all the information they need, stored on isolinear rods and—as a failsafe known only to Garak and the doctor himself—etched into Bashir’s memory. It’s time for them to depart.

Precisely three weeks into their assignment, Garak emerges from bed in the middle of the night, retrieves his engineering toolkit, and slips into Chakotay’s empty office. With a few taps to her console, he sends off his final encrypted report to Commander Sisko indicating their readiness for extraction. Then, with the message riding on the back of a generic Maquis signal he’s fabricated, Garak ebbs into the flow of his surroundings and continues down the corridor.

The ride down is the worst part. It feels longer than the first time, and when the lift comes to a stop, Garak lets out a soft breath of relief and gets out.

A Maquis stands guard at the juncture between the lift and the cavern. Garak pulls out his disruptor and allows himself to be seen—for an instant. The human’s eyes widen and he reaches toward his belt, the beginning of an order— _stop right there—_ frozen on his lips as Garak shoots him. Then he’s gone, allowing Garak to move past.

There’s another Maquis patrolling around the missile. Garak dispatches him as easily as his comrade.

Tongue loosened with alcohol and a Klingon lack of humility, B’Elanna had been forthcoming about her modifications to Dreadnought’s programming. She’s made it obedient to her and her alone. Or so she thinks. What she doesn’t know, couldn’t know, is that all Cardassian technology is built with a backdoor: a safeguard allowing the Order access should the situation require it.

Garak can’t think of a better time to exploit the Order’s lack of trust in Central Command.

As Garak steps into the missile, he finds its interior darkened. No beams of light reach out to scan his DNA. Panels hang ajar and tools litter the floor. Apparently B’Elanna left Dreadnought in power-save mode. Crossing its threshold, Garak finds the primary control panel, kneels down, and opens his toolkit. With a steady hand, he begins reversing B’Elanna’s overrides.

He won’t be able to get far; his Order codes are old, but useful enough to usurp rudimentary control. Within ten minutes, he’s convinced the computer to permit him to move freely within its physical subsystems without shutting down, locking up, or worse—alerting the Maquis. Anything more is beyond his outdated skillset.

Garak is prying off the covering of an access hatch when he hears soft footfalls outside. He draws the disruptor again and aims. Seconds later, Bashir’s slender silhouette appears in the doorway.

“There you are,” Bashir says, making a careful approach. “I had a feeling I’d find you here.”

“What remarkable intuition you have. Now, Doctor, turn around and go back to bed.”

“You know, Garak, I’m getting awfully tired of you ordering me about!”

“Keep your voice down!” Garak hisses.

Mercifully, Bashir doesn’t fight him on that count. He hisses back, “In case you forgot, you take orders from  _me,_ not the other way around.” He sounds insufferably proud of that. “Whatever hairbrained scheme you’ve got going here, I’m calling it off.”

Garak stands. “I don’t think so.”

A flash of alarm in Bashir’s eyes. “Garak,” he whispers, “put that down.”

“Or you’ll do what?” Garak asks, advancing forward until the barrel of the disruptor hovers beneath Bashir’s jaw. “You didn’t even bring a weapon with you, did you?” When Bashir only shakes his head, Garak tsks. “You should know better than to come unprepared.”

“I’ll tell Commander Sisko about this.”

Garak chuckles at the threat. Even if he had any attention of returning to the  _Defiant_ to face Sisko’s judgment, it would still carry little weight. “Feel free, assuming you live to tell him.”

“You’re bluffing anyway. If you missed—”

“Miss? At this range?”

“Are you willing to risk blowing up both of us, Major Kira, and a hundred Maquis?”

“If it means sparing one Cardassian life,” Garak says, “yes.”

Bashir goes quiet, and really, did he think Garak would say anything else? Perhaps Bashir doesn’t know him half as well as he boasts. With Bashir momentarily stymied, Garak grabs the human’s delicate wrist and slams him bodily into a console, twisting his arm behind his back.

Bashir wheezes in pain. “What are you—”

“I had a feeling too, Doctor,” Garak says, tucking the disruptor away and pulling out a length of cord. “You’re adept at predicting me, but that goes both ways.”

Bashir turns his head to fix Garak with a heated glare. “Never could play fair, could you? You know damn well I won’t fight back—I won’t, I can’t hurt you. That’s what you do. You find a weakness and you exploit it.”

“Isn’t that the point?”

“The point of what?”

 _Romance,_ Garak’s mind unhelpfully supplies. “Life,” Garak says cheerfully. He bends back Bashir’s second arm and wraps the cord around his crossed wrists. Much like a trussed regova, Garak muses. It’s an attractive look on him, but, alas, work must come first. Leaning forward, he whispers into the shell of Bashir’s ear, “You’re out of your depth. I warned Commander Sisko that it was a mistake to bring you along.”

“Is that right? Who do you think ordered me to keep an eye on you, Garak?”

Garak had suspected as much from the beginning. With a rough tug, he tests Bashir’s bonds and smiles as the human tries to squirm free. The cords only tighten around Bashir’s wrists, and after a laudable effort, he huffs in defeat. Most attractive indeed. Garak hauls Bashir up and dumps him in a corner. “Stay put,” he says. “And if you can manage it—quiet.”

“What are you planning to do?”

For a time, Garak chooses not to answer. Instead, he returns to the task at hand, delving into Dreadnought’s innards, reprogramming isolinear chips and shutting down all self-diagnostics. When he’s finished, he tucks away the exposed circuits and closes the panel. His knees pop as he climbs back to his feet. “I’m almost done,” he tells Bashir as he strides past.

He’s outside, kneeling beside Dreadnought’s docking clamps, when Bashir appears in the hatch, his arms still bound, his expression noticeably more contrite. “Garak.” Yes, that’s a much more acceptable tone. “Garak, what are you doing?”

Garak fires up a torch and begins to delicately weld. “Taking a few preventative measures.”

“More like sabotage. You’re sealing the docking clamps together, aren’t you? If the Maquis try to launch the missile—if they don’t figure out what you’ve done in time . . .” He sets his jaw. “Garak, there are  _children_ living here!”

“A deliberate tactic,” Garak says, his voice thick with distaste. “The Bajorans tried it, in the early days of the Occupation. They used their own children as shields.”

“You’re saying . . .”

“Central Command never valued non-Cardassian life, no matter its size. Does that honestly surprise you, Doctor?”

“Garak, I know the Maquis are terrorists. What they’re doing is  _wrong,_ but that doesn’t justify—”

“The Maquis can easily choose not to launch the missile,” Garak reminds him. He lifts his eyes from his work. “By any chance, Doctor, are you familiar with the  _Oresteia?”_

“I’ve read it,” Bashir says warily. “It’s been a while. Why?”

“How did that line go?” Garak resumes welding and quotes,  _”And as he wrought, even_ _so_ _he fares. Nor be his_ _vaunt_ _too loud in hell; For by the sword his sin he wrought . . .”_  Garak pauses, pretending to forget the next line.

Bashir immediately finishes for him. “ _And by the sword himself is brought,”_ he says _, “among the dead to dwell.”_

Garak smiles. “Very good, Doctor! What an excellent memory you have.”

“It’s one of the oldest human proverbs, Garak,” Bashir says defensively, his shoulders hunched. He takes a measured step closer. “But quoting ‘live by the sword, die by the sword’ to justify preemptively killing innocent life has got to be the most convoluted, cynical interpretation I’ve ever heard.”

“I do consider myself a fan of irony,” Garak admits.

“How is it that you, a Cardassian, know of Aeschylus? No, let me guess. You overheard the play’s last act while sewing a pair of trousers.”

Garak’s smile doesn’t travel past his lips. “Not quite.”

A minute later, Garak finishes the last weld. His task is complete. He shuts off the torch and gathers his toolkit. He does one last pass through Dreadnought, erasing any evidence of his presence, before prodding Bashir by disruptor-point to the lift.

As the lift begins to ascend, Bashir rocks back on his heels. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

_Add it to my list of misdeeds, my dear._

“What happens if the Maquis discover what you’ve done?” he presses, and Garak has to credit the human for his tenacity. “They’ll know we were spying on them.”

“They’ll figure that out the instant we go missing, Doctor. There’s no way around that.”

Bashir goes quiet. For about twenty seconds. “Could you please put that away? I don’t plan to scream for help. Or run off. Or fight you, for that matter. I’m not bloody stupid.”

Garak opens his mouth, dashes the rebuttal aside. Too easy. When it comes to repartee, he’s never been one for low-hanging fruit. But the good doctor does have a point. Perhaps Garak can prove, just once, that he’s capable of benevolence. Keeping the disruptor pressed to Bashir’s spine, Garak reaches over and tugs on the cords binding his wrists. They come loose at once. Bashir audibly sighs in relief.

“Thanks,” he says, massaging his wrists.

“You’re welcome.” Garak leans close and is delighted by Bashir’s flush as he whispers, “When we stop, you’re going to proceed to the dormitory and find the major. Then together you’ll pack up your valuables and meet me in the transporter room. Do you think you can do that without arousing suspicion?”

Bashir swivels his head. Despite Garak’s close proximity, he scowls. “I seemed to find you without alerting the entire base, didn’t I?”

“Your little interruption delayed my progress. Now the Maquis will be awake.” The lift stops with a shudder. Garak rowels the human with a last friendly prod to the kidney. “Ten minutes,” he says.

Bashir takes a step, then turns. He casts Garak a lingering, worried glance. “I’ll bring you a coat,” he decides.

Garak blinks. He catches himself, masks his surprise with a casual nod. “That would be generous of you,” he says, and then Bashir is gone.

Later, as Garak trudges through knee-deep drifts of snow, as freezing wind pelts him, robbing his breath like body-blows, he’s profoundly thankful for the extra covering. It’ll delay the inevitable, but it’s still a welcome comfort. If he could stop shivering long enough to get the words out, he might even tell Bashir himself.

“Dammit, Garak!” Kira calls over her shoulder, shouting to be heard over the howling wind. “What were you thinking, transporting us this far from the shield perimeter? We’re going to freeze out here!”

“That’s enough, Kira!” Bashir shouts back. “Garak made an honest mistake.”

“Are you  _kidding_ me? Honest? Garak isn’t honest, and he doesn’t make mistakes!”

Garak trembles violently and doesn’t dignify any of that with an answer.

They walk on, mindlessly, for a long time. Garak’s legs have long gone numb, and it’s a welcome relief when Kira finally stops to scan their surroundings. While they wait for the readings, Garak admires the endless sheet of white. Their trail cuts through the snow, winding behind them and disappearing over a far ridge.

Kira shuts the tricorder and nods. “We’re getting close.”

“Not a moment too soon,” Bashir says, his voice muffled behind the balaclava covering his mouth. “Any longer and we might have a frozen Cardassian on our hands.”

Garak turns to glare at him, but some of the malice falters when his joints lock up and he stumbles forward. Kira, quick on her feet, grabs his gloved hand and pulls him up before he can get another face of tundra. Once had been enough.

“Do you want to take a break?” she asks once he’s steady.

Garak wants nothing more. He wants to curl into his inadequate coverings and sleep. But Bashir’s know-it-all voice interrupts the muddle of his desires. “I’m afraid that’s not an option _._ He needs to keep moving, otherwise his body temperature will drop rapidly. The faster we get through that shield and aboard the  _Defiant_ the better. If we don’t—” Bashir’s voice wavers with the first hint of concern. He doesn’t finish the sentence.

He’s right, of course, but Garak is too numb—physically, mentally—to acknowledge it.

Kira gives an exaggerated shrug in her parka. “Then let’s keep going.”

Garak’s body makes it another twenty minutes— _really, in what twisted reality do Bajorans define this as “close”?—_ when his legs give out. As he kneels there, half-submerged in the snow, Garak feels the tundra seeping into him. The cold burns through his clothing like fire, stinging his skin with its frozen barbs. He can’t move. Why should he? He wants to laugh, but his throat doesn’t emit a sound. No, no, here will do as well as anywhere else.

Boots crunch in the snow as Kira runs over. She pushes on his shoulders, cajoling him upward, while a pair of arms circle his middle, pulling. It’s comforting, that wrapping of warmth, and Garak leans back into the embrace.

“No, Garak.” Bashir’s pulled down the balaclava. His breath is hot against his neck. “You can’t rest here. C’mon, get up.” Garak feebly waves the nuisance away, but he persists. “You have to. Just a little farther.”

“Bashir, look. Prophets, he’s turning . . .”

“I know, I see it. Garak. Garak, please.”

“Why’s he so quiet?”

“Muteness might be an early sign of stupor. Maybe a Cardassian way of saving energy. I’d say savor the peace and quiet, but we _need_  to get him moving again.” Arms squeeze Garak’s waist. There’s a franticness to Bashir’s voice. “Garak, you need to get up. If we don’t get past that magnetic shield, the  _Defiant_ won’t be able to beam us aboard. I don’t know about you, but I’d rather be sipping hot chocolate right about now. I’ll fix you a cup. I think you’ll like it.”

Garak tries to shake him off. Why can’t they leave him alone? They’re supposed to leave him. The human is too warm. Garak’s overheating, boiling within his own clothes. He fumbles at the clasp at his throat, struggling with stiff fingers to get the coat off before it suffocates him. Can’t breathe. He can’t breathe.

“Garak, stop!” Bashir grabs his hands. “The hypothermia is making you irrational. You need to fight it, Garak. You need to get up. Major Kira and I will help you, but—Garak, you stubborn git, listen to me. Do it for Cardassia. I  _know_  you don’t want to die here like this, not when you can still go home—”

Bashir is still talking. Rambling, begging, tugging upward on his waist. Kira, still pushing on his shoulders. Shouting at him. Bashir doesn’t realize. How little he knows! There  _is_  no home.

Garak looks at the surrounding snow. He wants to burrow deep inside it, like a regnar narrowly escaping a predator, finally safe. He isn’t going back to that station. Everything that he was is gone. He doesn’t fit anywhere. He never fit, but now it’s all painfully clear, and his body is betraying him for the last time. Garak wishes they would both go away. Save themselves. Leave him to die, unmourned, long-forgotten, buried under a cleansing sheet of snow. 

A warm, bare hand touches his cheek and Garak jumps.

Then Bashir’s voice, soft and kind in his ear: “Garak,  _please.”_

Bashir is only concerned about the shell, not the man beneath. Bashir doesn’t know him. Bashir never wanted to know him. Garak realizes all of that, but the hand is a scalding presence on his skin, communicating more than words can express. Demanding his attention. Garak lets the hand steer him until he’s looking into Bashir’s eyes.

In them, Garak sees that desperate Federation optimism, pleading in silent platitudes not to give up. Garak begins to rail against it. He’s lived long enough, escaped death more than he deserves. His miserable life is a lesson in tenacity, and he’s tired of it. He tries to turn away, but Bashir grasps his face between his hands, holding him still. Garak doesn’t have the strength to fight him, so he closes his eyes.

“No, look at me.”

Grudgingly, Garak obeys.

Bashir smiles and repeats, “Please, Garak,” and this time the message is more personal. Bashir’s voice echoes like a song through a twisting cavern.  _Please live,_ it says.  _For me,_ it says.

_Oh, Doctor—_

Garak closes his eyes again, shame welling inside him. He swallows and tries to gather his scattered wits.  _Oh, Doctor,_ he despairs,  _I can’t do this again._ Despite the frigid cold numbing him all over, he’s overwhelmed by a tumult of emotions. He’s distantly aware of Bashir’s thumbs gently wiping away the tears freezing on his skin. It isn’t fair. Just when he’d exalted in the dissolving of his purpose, this human offers him this unconditional kindness.

Bashir pulls away. “I’m going to carry him.”

“You? There’s no way—”

“I have to try, Kira!”

As they begin to argue, Garak sets his teeth and blinks rapidly. For now, he has to focus on getting up. With a deep exhale, Garak shifts his weight. Kira and Bashir stop bickering and rush to assist, ducking beneath each of his arms and lifting. “There we are,” Bashir says. “Upsy-daisy.” Garak has to fight tears and a whimper that builds deep in his chest as every muscle in his body protests with shooting pain, but soon he’s standing again.

“I can’t believe it,” Kira says.

There’s a smile in Bashir’s voice. “Incredible, isn’t he?”

It takes every ounce of Garak’s strength to walk, even with Bashir and Kira holding him aloft. At turns he floats in and out of consciousness, leaving his body to escape a pain even the wire can’t alleviate. To his left, Bashir murmurs encouraging words every few paces. “Good, Garak,” he says, “you’re doing great.” When the pain becomes unbearable, Bashir soothes him. “I know it hurts, but we’re almost there.”

Garak wants to snarl at him—how  _dare_  this human patronize him like a child? Another part of him, however, is strengthened by the praise.

Bashir chuckles suddenly. “You know, this reminds me a little of Bajor.”

“What?” Kira says. “How is this  _anything_ like Bajor?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Remember when the three of us took that walk through the jungle?”

“You’re nuts if you think that’s a good memory.”

Tain had often complimented his survival instincts. “You’ll outlive us all, Elim,” he’d once said with a wry twist of his lips. He’d intended it as a curse. As they reach the top of the last ridge and pass through the magnetic shield, Garak looks over his shoulder, at the indentation they made in the snow where he’d fallen. Ah, well. There will always be other opportunities. He can’t possibly live forever.

* * *

They must’ve made it aboard the  _Defiant,_ although Garak would be damned to remember the details of their transport. When Garak opens his eyes, Commander Sisko is peering down at him expectantly. “Welcome back,” he says.

Garak shields his eyes from the bright overhead lights and looks around. Biobed. Purple and orange dressing gown. Sickbay. Absurdly, he feels a pang of discomfort that someone must’ve undressed him to get him into this travesty. He tests his smile on his visitor. “Thank you, Commander. What did I miss?”

“Nothing, besides your own recovery from severe hypothermia. Doctor Bashir tells me you’re a lucky man, Garak. That mistake of yours almost cost your life.”

Garak pulls the bed sheet to his chest and sits up. “Neither Major Kira nor Doctor Bashir were in any danger.” He narrowly avoids wincing at his own words. Why did he have to say that? Clearly he’s regained his verbal faculties too soon.

“That’s not good enough. When I send people out on a mission, I expect to bring them all home safely. That includes you, Garak. Your life matters just as much as any member of my crew.”

“A Federation viewpoint, if I ever heard one.”

Sisko grins. “You’re a Federation citizen. You may as well get used to it. Rest assured, we’ll be having a long chat, just you and me, when we get back to the station. In the meantime,” he slaps Garak’s leg through the bed sheet, “take it easy.”

Doctor Bashir must have already submitted his report detailing their encounter aboard Dreadnought. Garak had hoped to avoid the unpleasant repercussions of Starfleet’s disapproval. Granted, Sisko appears more blasé than Garak had expected, but then again the commander has mastered the art of calm, simmering rage. He and Tain are very similar in that respect.

Right now, Garak can’t muster the wherewithal to care about any of it.

Sisko goes, leaving Garak alone in the strangely empty sickbay. For a time, he stares at the ceiling, feeling out his emotions. He’s alive. If they’d been in the Order, both Kira and Bashir would’ve promptly shot him and saved their own hides. He’d severely misjudged their willingness to leave anyone, even a member of a hostile species, behind.

_Did you, Elim?_

Gingerly, Garak swings his legs around the biobed and, holding the opening of his gown closed, hunts for his clothes. He’s found them neatly folded in a cupboard when Kira appears in the doorway, back in uniform, her arms crossed over her chest. “Major,” he says with a nod. He’s in no mood to receive guests.

“You’re looking a lot better,” she says, coming to stand on the opposite side of the biobed. “I’ve never seen anyone turn blue like that. At least not anyone alive.”

“It’s too bad I didn’t have a mirror. I could use some inspiration for a new color palette.”

“How are you joking about this? Garak, if Bashir hadn’t done what he did, you’d be  _dead_  right now.”

Yes, he won’t be forgetting Bashir’s charitable act of kindness. “And where is the good doctor? I expected to find him hovering around when I woke up.”

“He’s up in officer quarters, resting. Saving your life took it out of him.”

Garak unfolds and refolds the tunic. These aren’t his Maquis clothes. Someone must have retrieved a replacement outfit from the suitcase he’d left aboard the  _Defiant_. “I’ll be sure to pay him my thanks when I see him,” Garak says.

“I bet.”

“Major, I almost think you doubt my sincerity.”

“Like I said on the planet, Garak. You’re not honest, and you don’t make mistakes.”

On a better day, one where he was preferably not feeling lightheaded, Garak might retort that she’s paid him a great compliment. How ironic, that Kira’s inflated opinion of Garak’s prowess has given her such insight to his true motives, while the others have remained blind. He throws the tunic on the biobed and regards her for a long moment. “You’re a very observant woman,” he says at last, “but the fact that I’m standing here is evidence enough that half your statement is inaccurate.”

“Save the Cardassian doubletalk for Bashir. He likes that sort of thing.” She circles around the biobed and, after a moment’s hesitation, takes his hand. “I don’t know what he said to you down there, but I’m glad he said it. I’m glad you changed your mind. Why are you looking at me like that?”

Garak schools his expression into something more neutral. “Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the sentiment, but I expected you to be much less—” he hunts for the appropriate word, “understanding.”

“You expected me to be angry at you?”

“In a word, yes. Or disappointed that there isn’t one less Cardassian around.”

“What kind of person do you think I am?”

“My dear,” he says gently, “it has nothing to do with your character. It’s what kind of  _Bajoran_ you are.”

For a second, her eyes flare with indignation, but she reins in her temper admirably. “Maybe I felt that way a few years ago,” she allows, dropping his hand to scratch at her brow with a thumb. “It’s funny, I didn’t think there was anyone who could hate Cardassians more than me. I guess sometimes you have to let yourself see people in a different light.”

Garak inclines his head at the wisdom. He can’t help but smile. “Please tell me you aren’t about to opine about the merits of forgiveness.”

“Not on your life,” Kira says, smiling back.

Hours later, after indulging in the comfort of a warm, blessedly mediocre meal of Sem’hal stew followed by a nap, Garak is feeling more like himself. There is still a rawness there, a hollowness in the pit of his stomach he’s come to associate with renewed purpose. He showers, dresses carefully, and combs back his hair.

He’ll live.

When he returns to sickbay, however, Bashir is nowhere to be found. Garak might be Bashir’s only patient aboard, but isn’t a doctor’s place here, with his medical equipment? There isn’t even a nurse on duty. What if there was an emergency?

Garak wanders the  _Defiant’s_ common areas, plotting his next move, awkwardly bumping into Chief O’Brien on two separate occasions and earning a scowl each time. Fed up with this aimless search, he calls upon the computer to find him. “Doctor Bashir is on the bridge,” the voice informs him.

How unexpected. Garak briefly considers feigning a heart attack to spare himself the walk. He checks the ship’s schematics and proceeds in that direction.

As he nears the bridge, the security officers on duty wave him along without a second glance. It’s a jarring sensation, freely roaming a Starfleet vessel. When the doors to the bridge slide open, Garak immediately zeroes in on Bashir: standing in a crisp uniform, hair neatly trimmed, tapping commands into one of the science stations. Back to the model Starfleet officer. Garak nods to the few crewmembers who’ve turned in their seats at his entrance and closes in.

Bashir looks up, wariness tight in his shoulders. “Garak? What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be resting.”

“How kind of you to concern yourself with my wellbeing,” Garak says, creeping closer. The edge in his voice has the satisfying effect of making Bashir tense up further.

“Just doing my job.” Bashir smiles and flicks his eyes around the bridge. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“Oh,  _now_ you’re eager to come to my aid, after all that effort you put into avoiding me!”

“ _Avoiding_ you? What on Earth are you on about?”

“It seems plain, doesn’t it? You haven’t set foot in sickbay for hours, and when I have no choice but to go looking for you, I find you hiding on the bridge, of all places! If I’d been in need of emergency medical care, I’d be dead.”

“I haven’t been hiding,” Bashir says between clenched teeth, “I’ve been helping Dax with her analysis of the plasma storms. Not that I need to explain myself to you.”

At Bashir’s hostile tone, the other Starfleet and Bajoran crewmembers sit up and gawk. Good. The larger the audience, the better. There is no seduction technique more blatant than argument through imagined slight. Besides painting his neckridges blue and posturing atop a rock like a prehistoric Cardassian, but that’s sadly a physical impossibility. “Really?” he says. “Isn’t a doctor a little overqualified for that task? Surely Lieutenant Dax could find a middling science officer to take care of that. Admit it, Doctor, you have no reason to be here.”

Bashir throws down his padd like it’s a gauntlet. “Are you insinuating that I’m being negligent? You know what, Garak, I’ve had about enough—”

Sisko swivels in his seat, hands steepled. “Gentlemen,” he says as sweetly as interrupting a children’s tea party, “why don’t you take this conversation off my bridge? Before I have you both confined to the brig. Sound good?”

Garak nods in acquiescence and moves to go. Beside him, Bashir opens his mouth as if about to protest, then seems to think better of it. “Yessir,” he murmurs, ducking his head. The entirety of the bridge crew is still staring at them as they make their exit. Everything according to plan.

When the turbolift closes behind them, Bashir snarls, “Computer, stop lift!” He turns, his face a fetching shade of crimson. “What is  _wrong_  with you?”

Garak glances to the turbolift doors. He hadn’t anticipated this. “Is that a rhetorical question?”

“You embarrassed me in front of everyone! Could it not wait until we were alone? No, of course not! The almighty Garak doesn’t care about other people’s feelings! You can’t help yourself, can you?”

“Computer, resume—”

“Computer, belay that! What’s wrong, Garak? You’re looking a little agitated.”

“Doctor, you’re beginning to anger me.”

“Beginning to?  _Beginning_  to? Then what the hell was all that?” He gestures wildly in the direction of the bridge. “You called me negligent, Garak! How dare you? After everything we went through. After I saved your life!”

 _“I didn’t ask you to!”_  Garak roars.

Bashir sucks in a soft breath and goes still.

This situation is getting out of hand. Swallowing down his anger, Garak turns away. He has to get this thing moving. He makes a note to track down and personally throttle whoever designed Starfleet turbolifts. “Computer, resume,” he says.

This time Bashir doesn’t override his command. When the turbolift glides to a stop, Bashir shoves past and strides down the corridor, glaring over his shoulder as Garak wipes his forehead and chases after him. “Stop following me!” he shouts.

“I didn’t know you were capable of such cruelties, Doctor!”

That catches Bashir’s attention. He whirls around. “What?”

“The lift,” Garak explains, reaching him. “You know how I feel about enclosed spaces. Did you know,” he says conversationally, “it isn’t the size of the space that bothers me, but the sensation of feeling trapped?”

A flicker of guilt. “You deserved it. You were being a tosser.”

Garak ignores the insult—whatever it means. “If I had the clout, I’d offer you a promising career with the Obsidian Order.”

“But you _don’t_ , do you? If the Obsidian Order gave a damn about you, Garak, you wouldn’t be mucking around, making backroom deals with Commander Sisko, would you?”

Garak is struck momentarily speechless, and Bashir takes that opportunity to spin on his heel and flounce away. A renewed flare of anger curls inside him. He strides after Bashir to the entrance of his quarters where he’s punching in a code. “Believe me, Doctor,” he says. “I intended it as a compliment.”

“Well, pardon me if I’m not flattered to be lumped with fascists, torturers, and assassins.” Bashir’s fingers pause over the keys. He straightens, holding his ground. “I don’t like feeling this way,” he says, his voice choked with emotion. “You bring out the worst in me, and you don’t care, do you?”

Garak presses in, letting Bashir corner himself against the door. “Listen closely, Doctor. You should’ve left me on that planet. It wouldn’t have been a dignified end, but preferable to staring into your smug, sanctimonious face day in and day out.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” Bashir says, dripping sarcasm, “but last time I checked, I’m a doctor, and it’s my job to save people’s lives.”

“Yes, regardless of their wishes!”

“I’m not having this conversation with you again! You can resent me all you want for ruining your life, Garak! I don’t care anymore. I didn’t apologize to Serot when he was dying on the floor of Quark’s washroom, and I sure as hell am not apologizing to you!”

Bashir’s frame trembles with a fury that threatens to shake him apart, his fists clenched at his sides as if aching to make contact with Garak’s jaw. Cornered and ready to fight. Garak smiles, goading him with his eyes. “Go on, Doctor. Shall we settle this the Maquis way? I may not be in peak physical condition, but I promise: I won’t go down as easily as Tom Paris.”

Bashir’s eyes flash at the challenge. Garak can taste the salt on his skin, feel the warmth radiating from him, the charge in the air between them. They stare at each other, breathing hard, feeling out the moment.

“We’ll see,” Bashir says quietly, defiantly.

Garak strikes first. Bashir tenses, arms up in self-defense as Garak grabs the back of his neck and kisses him roughly. Nothing gentle; only the punishing, angry force of his will. Bashir gasps against his lips, then lowers his arms to claw at Garak’s tunic as he offers his warm mouth. Closing his eyes, Garak focuses on the sweet taste of him, feeling the pressing of their bodies as they relax into the embrace, melting into each other.

Bashir breaks away just enough to whisper against Garak’s lips. “You kiss like him,” he says.

Garak growls low in his throat and slams Bashir against the door, shutting him up for a solid second before Garak sinks his teeth into the smooth, delicate flesh of Bashir’s neck, drawing a shudder and a soft, “Oh,” of surprise and, ah-ha, his counterpart didn’t have the instincts for _this,_ now did he?

Not that Bashir protests. His hands snake around Garak’s shoulders, pulling him into a kiss that’s wet and deep and dizzying, and when he bites Garak’s lip in unspoken answer it sends a thrill of need down Garak’s spine. Again Garak shoves him into the door with a _thump_ , jarring a groan from Bashir’s throat, and Garak smirks as he feels the telltale twitch of the cock trapped between their bodies. Enchanting. Absolutely enchanting.

Their kisses are vicious, more an exchange of contempt than a show of affection. Garak marvels at the plump softness of Bashir’s lips. How would they feel against scales, he wonders? Garak pushes the thought down. Instead he lets his hands roam, exploring the small of Bashir’s back before finding the enticing curve of his ass. “Doctor—” His voice is rough and a little breathless. “Get the door.”

Bashir swallows. His eyes never leave Garak’s face as he feels for the keypad and blindly taps out the code. The door slides open.

Inside, Dax half-rises from a chair. “Julian! Were you the one banging on the—” Her eyes widen a fraction. “Oh,” she says. She sets her arms akimbo and favors them with a knowing Trill smile. “This is interesting.”

Garak has no interest in stopping to chat. He points to the door. “ _Out,”_ he says.

She raises a brow in Bashir’s direction. His mouth twitches in a nervous smile. “Sorry, Jadzia. Could you—would you mind terribly if—”

She’s already gathering her padds together. “I was about to head to the bridge anyway,” she says, picking up the pace when Garak stares at her. As she leaves, he swears he hears her mutter, “Try not to break the furniture.”

The door hisses closed behind her.

They’re upon each other again, kissing and yanking at clothing. Garak half-lifts, half-throws Bashir onto the desk and tears open his pants, breaking the zipper. He’s aware of Bashir ripping his tunic, but his entire focus is on Bashir’s tongue in his mouth, his own hand down Bashir’s pants, stroking hot, hard flesh. No time for finesse.

Garak _wants_ him. The lust is a here-and-now desperation overheating his skin. He could control it. He could stop, but he doesn’t want to. It’s reckless, surrendering to a human— _this_ human—but what else does he have? Who is going to stop him? As Garak slowly runs his tongue up Bashir’s long, craned neck and lingers on his earlobe, Bashir whimpers and bucks his hips. Garak smiles and savors the taste of him. He’s even more perfect than he imagined.

Nobody. Nobody is going to stop him.

Soon Garak has Bashir pressed against the wall, pants down to his thighs, working him open with two fingers. “Please,” Bashir begs, pawing helplessly at the wall. He arches his spine in a provocative display. “Garak, stop teasing already. Put it in now!”

Every soft cry and impertinent demand send resonant heat to Garak’s groin. It frays his patience until he can’t resist him any longer—he grabs Bashir’s hips with a bruising grip and pushes into him, inch by inch, urged on by Bashir’s shouts of encouragement.

“Yes! Oh god, finally!”

Garak rolls his hips and swallows down a moan. Bashir is hot and impossibly tight, the fit more perfect than an alien has any right to be. Garak pins him to the wall and bites every part of Bashir his teeth can reach. He settles for Bashir’s shoulder, jaw sinking into cloth and flesh, not letting go as he pounds into Bashir roughly and mercilessly. Through Bashir’s mammalian howls, his pleading of “more, more, more,” and “there, right there,” Garak can hear his name whispered between breaths.

Then he feels it—the incipient fire building in his core—and a sudden urgent politeness as he remembers his manners. “Doctor—” Garak groans, choking out the words while he still can. “Doctor, may I . . . inside . . .”

“Yes!” Bashir shouts. “Yes! Do it!”

Permission granted, Garak shudders, a small grunt escaping his clenched teeth. He climaxes hard and reaches around to help Bashir along, pumping fast until Bashir’s body spasms and he follows Garak over the edge with a long sobbing groan.

The moment Garak lets go of Bashir’s hips, the human’s legs give out. He slides to the floor, dark limbs shining and hair plastered to his face. While Bashir sits there, looking dazed and suggestively tousled, Garak fastens his pants and fusses over the ruinous state of his tunic. It’s splayed open, a sizable tear revealing a wide patch of pale skin. Nothing he can’t repair.

Once he’s caught his breath, Garak glares up at the ceiling. “Do I fuck like him, too?”

The vulgarity clouds the air like poison gas. When Bashir looks up, his eyes glisten. “Garak,” he chokes out. He clears his throat and tries again. “Garak, I’m sorry.”

Suddenly Garak feels tired and very old. He sighs and sinks down to the floor beside Bashir and doesn’t protest when the human leans against him. He’s a warm and reassuring weight against Garak’s shoulder.

“I can’t,” Bashir murmurs, almost too quietly to hear. Reaching out, he smoothes a hand over Garak’s sweat-dampened shirt. “I can’t keep this up.”

 _Neither can I,_ Garak thinks, but he doesn’t say it.

Bashir’s hand lingers over Garak’s heart—whether accidentally or deliberately, he doesn’t know. After a time, Bashir says into the silence, “Can we start over?”

Garak twists his neck to look at him. “Start over? You and me?”

Bashir nods.

What a novel, completely human idea. As Garak considers it, he feels himself smile. Bashir shifts beside him, nervously awaiting his answer, and Garak shows mercy on him. “Doctor,” he says gently, “I believe formal introductions are best performed fully clothed, don’t you?”

Bashir laughs, his eyes shyly averted and cheeks charmingly dimpled. An elegant, mellifluous sound. Is this the first time Garak has made him laugh like that? Such a vibrant smile on one who’s been so deeply pained—

Ah, so that’s what his counterpart saw.

_An agent of the Order has no ego, no conscience, no self. His desires are nothing to the will of the Union. No personal or familial loyalties come before—_

Bashir rests his head on Garak’s shoulder and sighs deeply.

Garak would like to think that the treacherous arm that winds around Bashir’s waist is controlled by another consciousness, but he knows better.

_I’m afraid I’m already lost._

“If you don’t mind,” Bashir says, “I think I’ll have myself a shower. Care to join me?”

It’s an excellent suggestion. Once they’ve clambered to their feet, Garak helps Bashir back into the remnants of his uniform. The shy smile is still there, but it’s guarded now, and Garak is sorely tempted to kiss him, if only to bring it back to its full grandeur. But the moment is already gone and with it Garak’s temerity.

Together, they make their way down the _Defiant’s_ corridors, clutching the broken fastenings and tears in their clothing. For the first time, Garak realizes, the silence between them is amiable. They’re lost in their own thoughts when O’Brien comes around the corner.

What a sight they must be—sweaty and disheveled as if they’ve been wrestling a Kryonian tiger. O’Brien does a double-take as he passes, his eyes wide. He snaps his mouth shut and quickens his pace.

His footfalls grow faint behind them and they exchange a private smile.

* * *

When the _Defiant_ returns to the station, they’re both immediately called to their separate duties. Bashir to his infirmary, and Garak to his shop and the hot seat of Commander Sisko’s office. For several days, Garak doesn’t see or hear from Bashir, and he worries that their tryst has irrevocably ruined any chance at reconciliation just as he was beginning to hope for it.

It wouldn’t be the first time he’s gone too far. There must be limits to what even a human is willing to forgive, and Garak is certain he’s crossed it long ago. He’s resigned himself to the likelihood. It’s too late.

Then, one afternoon as he’s testing the fit on a customer’s suit, Garak notices a familiar figure hanging around his rack of scarves. Bashir admires each one, running the fabric between his fingers, rubbing it along his cheek. Relief flows through Garak like the warmth of aged kanar.

Once he’s free of his customer, Garak makes his approach. For days he’s hoarded clever lines intended for this moment, selected to amuse and beguile, but at the sight of Bashir here, skittish and patiently waiting to be seen, Garak casts them aside.

“It’s quite becoming on you,” Garak says, coming around to tug the silk coiled around Bashir’s slender neck. He notes with a flush of pride that it’s one of his own creations. “I’d even say it brings out your eyes.”

Bashir turns and there is that wondrous smile again. “Ah, hello there. You must be the proprietor. Garak, is it?”

“At your service. I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”

Now Bashir is grinning from ear to ear. “Doctor Julian Bashir,” he says and offers his hand, human fashion. “Chief Medical Officer, Deep Space Nine.”

Garak takes his hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Doctor,” he says.


	14. Chapter 14

“It’s a meaningless gesture, of course.”

Bashir smiles over his soup. It’s that infuriating look—the one he gets when Garak’s said something predictable. “Of  _course_ ,” Bashir repeats. Amiably. Patronizingly.

Then something on the holoprojector makes Bashir wince.

Garak looks up in time to glimpse an attractive Bajoran man as he sends a springball hurtling out of bounds. Around them, the bar erupts with heckling and laughter. Morn lowers his head in his hands, prompting Dax to rub his shoulder and murmur consolations. It makes Garak pine for the relative quiet of the Replimat. But it had been Bashir’s suggestion that they watch “the game” together and Garak, desperate for company, hadn’t thought to protest.

Ignoring the holoprojectors and the crowd, Garak leans in, raising his voice to be heard above the din. “This apology is nothing but empty words.”

“I would think,” Bashir says, blowing on his spoon, “that you of all people would see the value in words _.”_

“And I do, Doctor. The words mean a great deal to the Bajorans. But I hope you’re not naïve enough to think this apology costs Central Command anything besides a little pride. I assure you, they have enough to spare.”

Bashir nods, shredding his bread between his fingers, and Garak notes with approval that Bashir has finally taken his advice and is eating at a civilized pace. Their first lunch together had ended before it started, with Bashir gathering his empty dishes while Garak was still tucking his napkin into his collar. Yet, despite slowing down, his dining companion chews and swallows without a hint of enjoyment, as if his food is flavorless. As if the act of eating is nothing but drudgery. “So you think it isn’t sincere?” he asks.

Garak almost laughs. Oh, perhaps the good doctor  _is_ that naive. Delicately, he slices at the food on his plate and takes a measured bite. As he mulls the rich texture of the meat, Garak thinks of Bajoran parents dragging their children from their beds, fleeing their burning homes and leaving their possessions behind, never to return again. He thinks of the Order, of Limor Prang looking upon this nascent treaty between Cardassia and Bajor with disdain.  _Once, Doctor,_ Garak thinks,  _I would’ve ensured that Kai Tolena never made it to the negotiating table._ As for Legate Turrel—he’d die in an interrogation chamber for even humoring the idea. That the negotiations have made it this far is strange indeed.

More diplomatically, Garak says, “I’m sure Central Command has decided that the benefits far outweigh the costs.”

“But an apology is more than words, Garak. It’s a way of saying you’ve learned your lesson. It’s an accepting of responsibility—”

“Which we’ll show by offering a trifling amount of reparations. We may even return a few of the orbs we’ve stolen as a gesture of goodwill. It doesn’t change the fact that, given the opportunity, Central Command would do it all over again. The only mistake Cardassia ever made was underestimating the Bajoran resistance.”

Bashir’s eyebrows rise at that. His spoon hangs loosely from his fingers. Garak smiles. Predictable as he might be, there are still times when Bashir seems to mistake him for his counterpart.

Then Bashir narrows his eyes like a shrewd gambler and points his spoon at Garak. “Is that what  _you_  think?” he says.

“Oh, it doesn’t matter what I think.”

Bashir looks like he wants to press the matter. Another guarded smile slips into place as he directs the spoon toward Garak’s meal. “How are the scallops?”

“Very tender, Doctor, thank you. This might be the first replicated meal I’ve enjoyed aboard this station.”

“Glad I could help,” Bashir says. “You know, when Serot’s tastes started to change, he hated the whole idea of taking up meat again.” His smile broadens at the memory. “I had to show him five conclusive studies proving that bivalves are incapable of feelings before he’d even give them a try.”

“You shared lunch together? Like this?”

“All the time.”

“And what, if I may ask, did you two talk about?”

Bashir rests his chin in a hand and stirs his soup. “Everything, really. Politics—” His eyes flick upward to the holoprojector where the attractive Bajoran misses the springball and stumbles. This Bajoran’s family must be highly influential within the Provisional Government, Garak muses. It’s the only logical explanation for how he’s gotten this far into the competition. “Sports,” Bashir continues, “station gossip, books . . .”

“Books?”

“Serot was fond of Bajoran romances. But I suppose you already knew that.”

“What about  _Cardassian_  literature, Doctor?”

“I read a few stories, here and there. Serot and I never talked about them. He didn’t seem interested.”

“Please, go on.”

“Well, first I started with  _Eternal Stranger—”_

“An excellent first choice.”

“But I couldn’t get past the third generation before I gave up. Frankly, all that talk about surrendering one’s will to the State and punishing dissent, over and over—”

“My good doctor, that’s the entire appeal of the repetitive epic!”

There’s no missing the way Bashir’s eyes suddenly brighten at being called his good doctor. Garak makes a mental note of that. “Maybe Cylon Pareg’s writing style just doesn’t appeal to me,” Bashir equivocates. “You know how it is, when the plot’s promising but the artistic flair gets in the way. Maybe I downloaded a bad translation.”

Garak sighs. “I’d hoped we’ve come far enough that there’s no need to be  _disingenuous_ with each other.” He raises a brow. “Right, Doctor?”

“All right, Garak. Have it your way. I hated it. It was dull and I saw every conflict coming a mile away.  _The Never-Ending Sacrifice,_ on the other hand . . .” Bashir trails off. With a slowness that can only be deliberate, he samples a spoonful of his soup.

“Yes?” Garak presses.

Once he’s had a few bites, Bashir sets the spoon aside. He smiles at Garak as if he can see straight through him. “It was a little better,” he says.

“A little!”

“I rather liked Osen, actually. He was my favorite character.”

Garak rolls his eyes. “He would be.”

“I know he chooses to go back in the end, but you must admit it’s brave, the way he disobeyed his orders. To do what he thought was right. He was the only character in all four thousand one hundred thirty-seven pages with any bloody integrity.”

Garak inwardly cringes. How idealists can purposely misread what’s right before their eyes will always be a source of bafflement to him. “If you mean deluded,” Garak says, unable to mask his growing irritation, “then I completely agree with you. Even if I were to accept your Federation interpretation of his actions, he  _does_  go back, rendering his childish expedition pointless. One he pays for, I might add, with his life.”

“But when he meets—”

“Doctor.” Garak rises to his feet and pulls off his napkin. “I can’t help but feel you’ve had me at a disadvantage since the beginning.”

Bashir moves to stand. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Garak. I didn’t mean to—”

But Garak has already excused himself.

That human has always been too incisive, Garak reflects as he weaves through a crowd transfixed by holoprojectors, leaving his dining companion behind.

_Very good, Elim. Run away. Prove his point—that you’re as much a coward now as you were then._

To his relief, Bashir doesn’t chase after him. He doesn’t even make an appearance at the shop to apologize. Perhaps he doesn’t need to. Perhaps Garak was the one who behaved poorly, rudely cutting short the meal instead of engaging in what could have been a friendly argument. As the day drags on, Garak closes up early and retires to his new quarters, where he’s content to stay for the remainder of the evening.

He’s turned off every light except one, casting the living area into a sheet of black interrupted only by the overhead lamp. It beams a spotlight onto his desk where he steadily works. Garak sighs and readjusts his ocular magnifier for what feels like the billionth time that night. It’s built to fit comfortably against a Cardassian’s orbital ridges and, as a result, he’s been forced to find a creative solution to keep it in place. One that is much less convenient.  

Holding Pela’s disassembled remote to the eyeglass, Garak makes another minor adjustment to its circuitry and sets his instruments aside. A test is in order. He presses the center button and shivers minutely as it hits him with a jolt of pleasure. Close, but not quite. If he’s going to live on this station for the foreseeable remainder of his miserable life, he may as well make the experience a bearable one without muddling his mind with kanar.

Garak makes another adjustment to the remote’s innards and activates it again. This jolt is more of an electric tingle. He shakes his head and corrects the error. Perhaps he’s being more liberal with testing than scientifically necessary, but Bashir isn’t here to scold him.

As if sensing his thoughts, the door chimes.

With another long-suffering sigh, Garak sets down the remote and answers it. The door slides aside, revealing Bashir’s intent face as he cranes his neck to see over Garak’s shoulder and into his darkened quarters. “Good evening, Doctor,” Garak says, stepping into the corridor to join his guest. The door slides shut behind him.

“Hello, Gar . . . ak.” Bashir’s eyes widen and his mouth drops open. His lips pull back in a wide grin as he seems to fight the urge to laugh. “Or should I call you _guv'nor?”_

“What? Ah, this.” Garak rips the eyeglass from his face. “A handy little tool for appraising gemstones.”

“Gemstones,” Bashir repeats.

“Just the other day, I was telling a customer how many, _many_ years ago I apprenticed for a season beneath Cardassia’s most illustrious jeweler. Sadly, he passed away before I could complete my apprenticeship—”

“An untimely tragedy, I’m sure.”

“—but I’ve still retained a surprising amount of knowledge. So she hired me to assess her sizable collection of bracelets. An arduous task without the eyepiece,” he says, twirling the device in his hand before tucking it into a pocket.

“Branching out into the jewelry business, eh, Garak? Doing your old mentor proud?”

“As he liked to say, it pays to keep one’s options open. So, Doctor, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

Some of the amusement fades from Bashir’s eyes. “I came by to apologize.”

“My dear doctor, I should be the one apologizing. It was I who overreacted this afternoon.”

“Maybe so, but I’d still like to make it up to you. I have a surgery scheduled in half an hour, but . . . could you come by my quarters afterward? Say, twenty-one hundred?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether you intend to ‘apologize’ with another surprise dose from your hypospray, of course.”

That startles a laugh. Bashir glances away. When his eyes return to Garak’s face, some of the tension has eased out of him. “Don’t you trust me, Garak?” he asks, smiling now. Yes, that is most certainly a challenge. Flirtation.

“Not in the least,” Garak lies.

Bashir looks him up and down. “Good,” he says. The smile lingers on his lips as he turns away. “I’ll see you then.”

Garak watches him saunter off. _Brash_ is the first word that comes to mind. _Provocative_ is the second. He contemplates the empty corridor for a moment, then slips back into his quarters to continue his work.

Garak arrives at Bashir’s quarters late in the evening. He straightens the sleeves of his suit, unsure what to expect. It only takes one ring before Bashir appears. “Thank you for coming,” he says and grabs Garak’s hand.

Garak tenses. When there’s no sting of a hypospray, he relaxes—slightly. “Of course, Doctor,” he says, managing an urbane smile. He allows Bashir to lead him to the white sofa in the center of the living area. Another tug on his hand commands Garak to sit.

Bashir paces in front of the terrarium, runs his fingers through his hair, turns. “I know you’re used to having your secrets. You like being in control. Hidden, inscrutable. Enigmatic. It’s safer that way. I’d be rather flummoxed if you knew everything about me.” He rubs his palms together and sinks down into the sofa. “I want to level the playing field.”

Garak tilts his head. “I’m not sure I understand, Doctor. Are you intending to confess to me?”

“That’s exactly right.”

If only he’d had the foresight to bring along a bottle of kanar. “You can’t realize how brave an offer that is,” Garak says, standing. _Or how tempting it is for me to accept._ “But it’s completely unnecessary.”

“I disagree. I’d say it’s long overdue.” Another wringing of the hands. His eyes flick to something over Garak’s shoulder and his lips twitch. “Kukalaka.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The bear, on the shelf there. Could you hand him to me?”

Garak looks back, catching sight of the ragged stuffed creature slumped between a burnished vase and a stack of books. “A bear,” he says, pleased to have finally solved the mystery. He plucks it from the shelf and appraises its form with a new eye. Somehow he expected bears to look more fearsome. Garak carries the toy over to his host. “Here we are,” he says.

Bashir’s face lights up as he cradles the bear in his arms. “I’ve had him since I was a child,” he explains. When Garak sits back down beside him, Bashir gives the toy a squeeze, as if marshaling his strength. “I never told Serot. I wanted to, but I couldn’t find the bloody courage. Of course you’d figured it out all on your own. The repressed part of you, I mean, but that’s only because we were so close and you were trained to notice those things and—”

Garak rests a hand on Bashir’s knee. “My dear, you needn’t explain. Especially when you insist on not making sense.”

A staccato laugh. “I better start at the beginning, then. Oh, god, Garak. You could destroy me with this.”

The right thing to do would be to leave. If Bashir’s secret is so significant he couldn’t tell even his beloved Pela, then it must be grave indeed. But once lit, Garak’s curiosity burns, demanding to be slaked. How could he possibly turn down such a seductive offer of information? Such a show of trust? Garak nods slowly, letting his understanding of Bashir’s magnanimity seep into his voice as he says, “You have my full attention.”

Bashir pets the back of the bear’s head and sighs. “I was six years old,” he begins. “Small for my age. Physically awkward, and not . . . very bright.” The words tumble out of him, faster and faster as if he’s been waiting all his life to confess. “In the first grade, when the other children were learning to read and write and use a computer, I was still trying to tell a dog from a cat and a tree from a house. I didn’t understand what was happening, but I sensed I wasn’t grasping the concepts my classmates took for granted. And I knew I was a great disappointment to my parents.”

Garak inches closer. He’d expected Bashir to admit to being smarter than his peers, and although he can’t relate to what he’s describing, he can sympathize with other aspects of his tale. “What did you do?” he prompts.

“ _I_ didn’t do anything,” Bashir says tightly. “Just before my seventh birthday, my parents packed our bags and announced that we were going on holiday. That night we left Earth for Adigeon Prime. I was excited to go. But instead of a marvelous party, my parents brought me to a hospital. The aliens gave me a room, and they . . .” Bashir twists the bear’s arm. “They started the treatments, and then—”

“What kind of treatments?”

Bashir clears his throat. “The _technical_ term is ‘accelerated critical neural pathway formation.’ Over the course of two months, my genetic structure was . . . manipulated to accelerate the growth of the neuronal networks in my cerebral cortex. And a new Julian Bashir was born.”

Garak sits there a moment, contemplating what he’s been told, and what’s been left unsaid. He’d known, of course, that the doctor was more intelligent, more physically adept than the average human, but Garak had assumed that he’d come to his abilities by virtue of good breeding (although Garak couldn’t fathom why he’d try so desperately to hide it, given his propensity for immodesty), or through an ancestor having an illicit tryst with a superior species. “How far did these genetic enhancements go?” he asks carefully.

“All the way. My intelligence. My hand-eye coordination. Reflexes. Vision. Height, weight. There isn’t a part of me that was left untouched.”

Garak highly doubts that, but he gives Bashir a patient nod. “I'm sorry, Doctor, but you promised me information that could be used to destroy you. I fail to see how any of this works in my favor.”

“Garak, I’m a _fraud!”_

“It’s been my observation that you humans put far too much emphasis on labeling yourselves when all that matters is that you’ve performed your duties to their fullest extent.”

Bashir huffs. “You’re missing the point.”

“I am?”

“DNA resequencing for any reason other than repairing serious birth defects is illegal under Federation law. We have Khan Noonien Singh and the Eugenics Wars to thank for that. Any genetically enhanced human is barred from serving in Starfleet or practicing medicine. Garak, if anyone found out about me, I’d be booted from the service, or worse.”

It’s the last, most critical tidbit of information. As it slides into place, Garak suddenly understands the full weight of Bashir’s confession. With minimal effort—an anonymous tip to a Starfleet admiral—Garak could see the doctor stripped of both his rank and career and shuffled off in disgrace. It would be easy. Far easier than the bureaucratic maneuvering it had taken to relinquish Garak’s citizenship. Poetic, mirrored exile.

How romantic.

Bashir shifts in his seat. “Garak, please say something.”

“Hm?” Garak looks up. “Sorry, Doctor, I was only wondering how you’d fare against me in a game of kotra.”

“Kotra? I just told you my biggest secret, and that’s what you have to say?”

“What else can I say? The genetic enhancements you describe have long been normalized on Cardassia. If there were any detractors, they were wiped out early in our history. This isn’t the first time I’ve deemed the Federation short-sighted, but—” Garak looks Bashir in the eye, sees the fear radiating from him, and softens. He reaches over to cover Bashir’s free hand with his own. It’s broader, pale and pink against the human’s skin. “I promise, Doctor. Your secret is safe with me.”

Bashir turns his palm over to loosely clasp Garak’s hand. “To be honest, I’m not sure I believe that.”

Prudent of him, but for once Garak isn’t willing to abuse this newfound trust. Not when it’s a precious thing so rarely bestowed upon him. He smiles. “Then why tell me?”

“You were bound to figure it out on your own, once we started to spend . . . more time together. I’ve been keeping this secret since I was fifteen. It’s lonely,” he murmurs, “living with the shame.”

Words form on the tip of Garak’s tongue, words he’s restrained since early childhood. Yes, he knows secrets and shame. Bashir’s honesty has a bewitching effect on him, but Garak resists the urge to yield to it. As Garak mulls over what Bashir’s said, he wonders what desperate measures he must’ve taken to keep his identity hidden. Garak remembers the lengths he’s gone, the choices he’s made to bury his secrets. Tain’s secrets. “Ashamed of what you are,” Garak says, his gaze drifting to the far wall, “or what you’ve had to become?”

The hand beneath his twitches. Bashir doesn’t ask Garak to clarify the distinction; that adroit mind has already pieced together his meaning. Garak is sure of it. “It’s more complicated than that. My parents never gave me a chance. They declared me a failure by the first grade. They were so terrified of having an underachiever for a son that they changed me! They aren’t my parents anymore, they’re my _architects.”_

 _Deftly deflected,_ Garak notes. None of that has answered his question, nor the one lingering more subtly beneath. But this isn’t an interrogation, so Garak follows the flow of the conversation. “Isn’t that the role of a parent? We take our young and impressionable and build them up, stone by stone, after our own designs.”

“Build, yes. Instruct, yes. Not tear down and manipulate into something else because it isn’t perfect!” Bashir sighs heavily. “I’m sorry, Garak. I know by Cardassian standards I must sound like an ungrateful brat, and I should be thankful that my parents risked imprisonment to mold me into the successful young doctor that I am today—” he pitches his voice low to underline his sarcasm, “but you don’t understand. Even if they had the best of intentions, it was still wrong. Jules Bashir _died_ in that hospital,” he chokes out. “He died because they couldn’t live with the shame of having a son who didn’t measure up.”

The words, rough with anguish and self-loathing, hit Garak hard. He remembers his own hospital and his own team of doctors. That child hadn’t “died” as dramatically as Jules Bashir, but had instead drowned beneath an ocean of deceptions, eroded away by the gales of his own deeds, over the course of decades. “No, Doctor,” Garak says lightly, “I don’t suppose I could understand.”

Bashir closes his eyes. He draws Garak’s hand to his chest with a contrite wince. “Garak, I didn’t mean it like—”

“My dear,” he interrupts, softly enough that Bashir turns to listen, “perhaps you didn’t choose this life for yourself, but you adapted to your circumstances. Anyone else would’ve squandered the abilities you were given. You took them and became an agent of benediction. I never had a chance to meet the child you once were—” Tears slip down Bashir’s cheeks and Garak wipes them away with the back of his hand. “All the surgeons on Adigeon Prime couldn’t manufacture your compassion, your kindness and bravery . . .” Garak could go on, but he stops himself before his emotions overtake him as well. “That child is alive and well, Doctor. And I’m positive that Pela would agree, were he here to tell you himself.”

To Garak’s surprise, Bashir throws his arms around his shoulders. The stuffed bear falls to the floor, forgotten. Tentatively Garak circles his arms around Bashir’s narrow waist and holds him. He allows himself to relax into the warmth, the comfort of the embrace.

“Thank you,” Bashir whispers. A muffled laugh. “You can be rather compassionate yourself, when you want to be.”

“There’s no need to be insulting, Doctor.”

Bashir laughs again. Garak gives him a reassuring peck on the cheek and is about to pull away when Bashir tightens his embrace and returns the gesture, equally chaste. Garak closes his eyes to enjoy the sensation of smooth lips against his skin. _On your best behavior, Elim._ Much as Garak knows he should maintain a degree of propriety between them, it’s a lot to ask with Bashir’s fingers caressing his hair, petting him with slow, gentle strokes. Resigned to his weakness, Garak kisses Bashir’s jaw, then his chin. When he reaches Bashir’s lips, he pauses and looks into his eyes.

Bashir closes the distance.

They’re innocent, at first. The kisses are soundless and delicate. Then Bashir parts his lips and Garak can’t allow such a challenge to go unmet. Soon they’re taking breaths between hungry, open-mouthed kisses. Garak could stay here all evening, but already his mind is skipping past, imagining Bashir straddling his lap, imagining Bashir in his arms as he carries him into the bedroom. If their tryst aboard the _Defiant_ was only a taste—

“Garak, no.”

Garak freezes in place.

Bashir pulls away as if greatly pained. “I can’t. Not like this.”

_Ah._

_Of course._

Garak swallows down his disappointment. He doesn’t need an explanation; he’s fully aware of the ways he doesn’t measure up to what Bashir once had. He makes up his mind right there. Garak caresses Bashir’s face, soothing away the crease in his brow with a thumb. “I can pretend to be him,” he murmurs, kissing the spot below Bashir’s ear. The human shakes his head, but there’s no mistaking the way he shivers at the idea. Encouraged, Garak relaxes passively into his arms to emphasize his willingness to play along. “If that makes it easier.”

Bashir goes rigid. “Easier? My god, Garak! I would never ask you to do that!”

“I’m offering. It’s no imposition.” Resting his head on Bashir’s shoulder, Garak switches to Bajoran and pitches his voice to a silken purr, “Whatever you want, my dear Julian.”

Another shiver. Bashir’s fingers dig into Garak’s waist. “Stop it. Please.”

Puzzling. Not the enthusiasm he was expecting. Garak redoubles his efforts, slipping deeper into character. He slides one hand down to the fastenings of Bashir’s pants and is pleased to find him hard. “Oh, my love,” he breathes, “I want you,” he rubs the tented fabric and glances up with affected shyness, “in my mouth. May I?”

“No, no, no.” Bashir whimpers, his voice strangled even as he tilts his hips.

“Please, ja’lat, let me—”

Bashir shoves him away. “Bloody hell, Garak! Have you lost your mind? Up ‘til now you’ve done nothing but rail against any comparison between you and Serot! And now you’re, you’re—will you stop _looking_ at me like that?”

“ _Shh.”_ Garak clambers up to calm him. “Ja’sheya—”

“No! Listen to me, Garak! I’ve come to terms that Serot’s never coming back. We said our goodbyes that night, right here, on this sofa. It isn’t fair to any of us to go on pretending.” He wipes at his eyes. “I’ll always love him, but I can’t do this. I _can’t_ live a lie.”

“Refusing to live a lie is what got you into this ruinous situation in the first place,” Garak sneers. “If you’d left well enough alone, you’d be together right now, reading bedtime stories to some half-starved Bajoran war orphan.”

“Maybe so, but that’s not how I do things. I’m not on speaking terms with my parents precisely because they’ve forced me to pretend I’m someone I’m not.”

Garak grits his teeth. What does this human _want_ from him? “I don’t understand you,” Garak says, jumping to his feet and pacing. “First you chase after me like a Drathan puppy lig, and when I finally deign to humor your advances—”

Bashir raises a single brow. Ah, he’s not buying it.

“When I begin to reciprocate your interest,” Garak amends, “you reject me.”

Bending down, Bashir scoops up the stuffed bear from the floor. “Mind if I tell you a story?”

Garak stifles the growl forming in his chest. He wants a straight explanation for the human’s behavior, not another story. It’s a Cardassian move, a misdirection, and if either of them is going to pull it, Garak would much rather it be him. But Garak reigns in his impatience and inclines his head, allowing the digression. “Please do,” he says.

Bashir nods and sets the bear on his knee. “Some time ago,” he begins, “a Cardassian came aboard the station. Kira might’ve told you about him. Aamin Marritza. He’d surgically altered himself to look like a man named Gul Darhe’el—”

“Darhe’el! The famed ‘Butcher of Gallitep’? I could’ve sworn I read somewhere that he was dead.”

“He was. Marritza was impersonating him—”

“Impersonating a dead man? Foolish of him. No decorated gul dies on Cardassia without an impressive funeral and fanfare. Assuming no one he encountered had heard of Gul Darhe’el’s death—which is, in my opinion, a gamble of reckless proportions—one simple inquiry could—”

“Garak?”

“Yes?”

“Shut up.”

Garak gives an elegant shrug. “By all means, Doctor, please continue.”

“Thank you. To answer your question, Marritza wasn’t posing as Darhe’el when he first came aboard. It wasn’t until I diagnosed him with Kalla-Nohra Syndrome that we realized there was more to his story. Turns out Marritza had been Gallitep’s file clerk. The horrors he’d witnessed had taken such a toll on him, he was convinced the only way to make it right was to pose as Gul Darhe’el and stand trial. He’d wanted to be caught. He thought if he was punished, Cardassia would admit its guilt. For what it did to the Bajorans.”

An intriguing, if delusional, plan. Garak knows enough about Federation and Bajoran ethics to easily guess what happened next, but he asks anyway. “Did he get his wish?”

“By punishing an innocent man for a crime he didn’t commit? Of course not. Commander Sisko planned to send Marritza home, but—” Bashir’s lips turn down. “He never made it to his ship.”

“Shot?”

“Stabbed. I tried everything I could, but he was dead before I got the comm.”

As far as the Federation was concerned, such a meaningless death was preferable to carrying out the sacrifice he had intended. One that could have benefited countless Cardassians and Bajorans.

“Kira was the most affected by it,” Bashir continues. “Not that she let on. Serot was spending a lot of time with her and, well, I might’ve been a touch jealous. We were still getting to know each other, you see. But it gave me the opportunity to reread an old favorite. A book I’d picked up after I learned about my enhancements. The moral stuck with me: ‘we are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be.’”

“Lest we find ourselves stabbed to death on the Promenade?”

Bashir smiles. “I think Serot would like us to get along. But if we decide to make a go at this, we have to do it right. Do you understand what I’m trying to say, Garak? I’m playing for keeps.”

A wave of relief crashes against a counter wave of panic as Garak senses where this is going. “I feel the same way,” he insists confidently, smilingly.

Yet the skeptical frown doesn’t budge from Bashir’s brow. “Then we’re agreed. As long as we’re alone, we’ll be ourselves. No pretending. I won’t hold back, and you’ll . . . you won’t pretend to be Serot, or Tain’s protégé, or any of your other personas. I don’t want you to be anyone else but yourself, Elim Garak.” Bashir sets the bear aside and fixes him with a hopeful look. “Well, Garak? What do you say?”

_No pretending._

That’s easy for him to say. Bashir possesses only one persona, with his genetic enhancements superficially buried beneath a veneer of Starfleet Officer. Allow it all to bubble to the surface and Julian Bashir is still fundamentally the same man. Garak has been playing at personas since he learned his first facial expression. He has too many to count, and he became each one he pretended to be. There isn’t an Elim Garak who isn’t in some way both Pela Serot and Tain’s protégé. If he were to strip away the fabrications, there’d be nothing but the barest outline of a Cardassian.

Whoever that man is, he isn’t worth living, much less loving.

It puts him in a foul mood, and his silent brooding carries into the next afternoon as he kneels on his shop’s floor, pinning the bodice of Bottaquey’s dress.

“Keep it up,” Bottaquey says, “and your face will stick like that.”

Garak notches another pin, too lost in thought to register the comment. “What was that?”

“You’re scowling. You haven’t smiled since you got back from . . . wherever the hell you went. That top-secret mission. What happened? Is it about Doctor Bashir? Did he say something?” They twist around, the fan of mirrors capturing their ire from all angles. “What did he do?”

“ _My dear.”_ Garak sighs and grabs their hips, his put-upon air covering his amusement at the ensign’s overprotectiveness. “Please hold still before I jab you.”

“I hope I heard that wrong,” a voice lilts from across the shop. Garak turns to find Dax striding over, her eyes crinkled with mischief. “I can be the jealous type.”

Bottaquey grins at the sight of her. “Jadzia.”

As Garak stands and hurries off to retrieve Dax’s alterations from the rack, he watches the lieutenant grasp the hem of Bottaquey’s dress and playfully swish the white luminescent fabric. The ensign doubles over with an inordinate amount of laughter. Garak had heard rumors following Lwaxana Troi’s telepathic rampage, but he’d yet to witness the evidence firsthand. As their flagrant flirting drags on, both parties ignoring his presence in his own shop, Garak has the powerful urge to no longer remain sober.

Readying the garments with one hand, Garak snakes his other into a breast pocket. Fingertips graze the plastic of the remote, find the dial. Five minutes should be enough to get him through this insufferable encounter.

The effect is instantaneous.

Buoyed by a euphoric surge of endorphins, Garak pleasantly clears his throat, jarring them apart. He raises the bag of completed garments. “Miss Dax,” he drawls.

“Oh, Garak, right!” She plasters together a sheepish smile. “Sorry about that. How much do I owe you?”

In the flutter, he almost waves away her payment before catching himself and providing the bill. Once she’s gone, he counts his latinum and hums. He’s forgotten about his remaining customer when Bottaquey claps their hands and points at him.

“There! _That’s_ the smile I was missing.”

Over the next two days, Garak manages to use the device only a handful of times when he needs a small, minuscule boost to his mood. Five minutes after he recalls a poignant memory from his heyday in the Order. Ten minutes to endure a fussy customer clearly in denial that his measurements have changed. Fifteen minutes for waiting in the Replimat queue with a line of famished Bajorans. Thirty more because the Replimat is especially cold that afternoon. Forty-five minutes to convince Counselor Troi and her assistant Ezri that he’s made a significant breakthrough. An hour as a reward for finishing a difficult commission.

The lows that follow every elevated burst are insidious, so subtle that Garak doesn’t notice them until he catches his mind drifting to dark places. It makes him wonder if he’d be better off leaving the wire on full time. It makes him wonder if he’d be better off if he’d programmed that Maquis transporter to scatter his molecules across the frigid surface of Terikof II. Hindsight is twenty-twenty, as the humans love to say.

Still, on the second evening, Garak resolves to try to make this work. He has nothing to lose but the vestiges of his dignity. Surely in all his years of state-sanctioned murder and espionage, he can manage the courage to do this.

On young Ezri’s suggestion, he replicates a bouquet of Terran flowers. A staple of human courtship rituals, she’d said. The arrangement that materializes is artificial perfection. Not one malformed or discolored petal to be found in the cloying bunch. Beautiful by Federation estimates. As unique as a platitude.

Garak doesn’t like the symbolism of it.

He tosses the bouquet into a vase in a dark corner of his quarters—a reminder not to take romantic advice from teenagers. Perhaps it’s old fashioned, but if he’s ever to give Bashir such a gift, the flowers will be nurtured and cut by Garak’s own hand.

When he arrives at Bashir’s quarters late in the evening, the doctor looks surprised—but not disappointed—to see him. “I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time,” Garak says. “Are you entertaining?”

“All the time,” Julian teases, waving him inside. “I’m the most entertaining man on this station, and don’t let Chief O’Brien tell you otherwise. I hate to be a bore.”

“And you mostly succeed.”

“ _Mostly?”_

“You could use some instruction.” Garak breezes over to the sofa and sits, legs crossed at the knee. “On the art of telling a good story, for instance.”

“Oh, this I have to hear.”

Bashir offers him a drink and together they sit, awkwardly at first, tea in hand. Garak spins him fantastic stories from his past life, each more outrageous than the last, until Bashir is leaning in, his eyes wide, his expressions shuffling between wonder and skepticism. Such an open, honest face. Garak privately delights in leading him along with the simple timbre of his voice, or a well-placed gesture. When Garak glances aside and half-covers his mouth, voice pitched _sotto voce_ as if to confess a great secret, Bashir seems to forget to breathe.

By the end of it, the tea is cold and Garak has made his point.

“Okay, fine,” Bashir admits, “that was rather good. But don’t expect me to believe that you faked your own death while posing as the Cardassian ambassador and were actually shot into space.”

“Of course, you’d choose to doubt the one truthful thing.” The comment earns him a mildly exasperated shake of the head and Garak is loath to admit that he’s growing fond of Bashir’s reactions. Garak takes a deep breath to steel his nerves. “Doctor,” he says, “I have something for you.”

At his tone, Bashir looks up sharply. He draws back. “What—”

Garak plucks the isolinear rod from a pocket and extends it. As Bashir turns it over in his hands, Garak explains, “It’s a series of messages. Recorded by my counterpart. Intended for you.”

The color drains from Bashir’s face. “Where did you get this?”

“Oh, I was dusting around the shop . . .”

_“Garak.”_

“I stumbled upon it. On your computer’s memory.”

Bashir squeezes the isolinear rod so tightly Garak fears it might snap in two. “You _stole_ it off my computer’s memory. You knew I had no idea it existed, and you stole it. Why, Garak? Why would you do that?”

“To put it simply, Doctor: leverage.”

“ _Leverage?”_

“I’ve learned to stay at least one step ahead of my enemies,” Garak says, neglecting to mention that he was also very drunk at the time, “and I had a feeling you might find this item of great value.”

 _I’m surrendering my last bargaining chip against you, Doctor. Do you not understand what that means?_ It is the most serious declaration a Cardassian can make.

Bashir sets his jaw. “You’re sure it had nothing to do with revenge?”

“While I’ve harbored my share of malicious intentions over the years, making you suffer was never my goal. My motivation was survival. Frankly,” Garak sighs, the weight of all this _frankness_ like a Ligorion mastodon sitting on his chest, “how my actions affected you didn’t factor into my decision.”

Bashir peers at him. Garak senses that what he’s about to say has been bothering him, stewing in the recesses of his mind for a long time. It’s important that Garak gets this right. “You said you hated me,” Bashir murmurs. “You said I ruined your life.”

Garak doesn’t point out that, in their shared moment of anger, Bashir had said the very same thing. Instead he nods and says, “I did.”

“Did you mean it?”

“At the time. I did hate you for ruining my life—” At that, Bashir’s face falls. Garak leans in. “Look at me, Doctor.” When he lifts his eyes, Garak inclines his head and minutely shifts his posture, transmitting layers of _apology_ and _sincerity_ that Bashir’s human modalities can only subconsciously interpret. “I did hate you for ruining my life. But, my dear,” he says, “it was never much of a life to begin with.”

Bashir goes quiet. He looks down at the isolinear rod in his hand, hefts its weight. Then he’s on his feet, carrying it to the replicator. He sets the rod in the reclamation port and keys the interface.

Garak sits up in alarm. “Doctor?”

“I told you we already said our goodbyes,” Bashir says, keeping his back to Garak as the isolinear rod sparkles and dematerializes. “There’s nothing there I don’t already know.” When it’s gone, he turns and gives Garak a long, searching look. Then he smiles. “While I’m here . . . more tea, Garak?”

It takes Garak a moment to overcome his surprise. He doesn't understand, but he forces a smile and nods anyway. “Please,” he says.

This might not be much of a life either, but it does have possibilities.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bashir is quoting the introduction of the novel _Mother Night_.


End file.
